Lies I Never Told
by Dollar Short
Summary: Wherein Sam is revealed to be a fearful liar and Dean gets more than a little tetchy. Mayhem and murder ensue. Set early S1, after Phantom Traveler.
1. Chapter 1

**Lies I Never Told **

**Chapter 1**

**Disclaimers**: The boys aren't mine, but I like to borrow them and poke 'em with a sharp stick, just to see how they react.

**S s S s S**

Sam wrenched his body violently to the left, while still trying to stay upright, but it seemed that his luck was busy elsewhere that morning and his feet slipped on the dew-laden grass and he fell heavily to his knees. Knarled and knotty fingers cut through the air behind him, splintered fingertips caught briefly on his belt, and then slipping free, raked across his backside, ripping through his jeans and flesh.

Sam screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the creaking shriek of triumph from the whirling mass of leaves, barks and assorted woodland detritus, that swirled in the misty air. So much for benign Earth spirits, thought Sam grimly, as he rolled over onto his back, his fingers scrabbling for his jacket pocket, while the ancient and decidedly aggravated tree guardian shrieked once more, stirring up a great cloud from the forest floor.

Sam's fingers closed around the small cylinder in his pocket, the thumb of his right hand already flicking on a disposable lighter, blinking through the dust he shakily brought the taper and flame together.

"Sorry." He offered, and tossed the firework. The result was immediate and to Sam sprawled damp and bloody in the dirt, pretty damn satisfying. A sudden bang preceded a great burst of red and green sparks that shot in all directions; bouncing of twisted limbs and illuminating a pair of dark empty eyes above a gaping black hole of a mouth, that howled its rage as the first flickers of flame lit the entity's center.

Thank fuck, thought Sam and slowly pulled himself to his feet, stepping back carefully over the rough ground to put a little distance between himself and the fire. He watched the fire flare up, spitting sparks high into the air. The flames crackled loudly and soon he could no longer distinguish any form within the fire.

Sam turned and limped over to his backpack, he dragged it back to dying fire and pulled out a small bag. He emptied the contents into the flames, sweet grass, sage, just a little sandalwood, a personal favourite, and because he had occasionally listened to his brother, a handful of rock salt.

Mrs Hawksworth was waiting for him by the gate that separated the long formal lawn from the woodland beyond. As he emerged from the undergrowth, she raised her hand, waving a small white handkerchief.

"Samuel, Samuel, my dear boy, are you still in one piece?" Mrs. Hawksworth was a rich, well-educated woman in her late fifties. She was also the aunt of one of Sam's college professors. Sam had heard him discussing his Aunt Millie's 'problem' at the end of class one day and before he realised what he was doing, he was discreetly offering his help.

Sam winced as the damaged muscles of his butt pulled and he could feel blood running down the back of his legs. Sam knew that he gotten a little lax in the past eight months, his last hunt, three weeks before leaving for Stanford, had certainly been more smoothly executed. Dean, Sam thought sadly, would laugh his ass off.

He sighed, his first solo hunt, and no one to cheer on, except Mrs. Hawksworth. As he approached the gate, she pushed it open and ushered him through.

"Is that dreadful thing vanquished, young man?" She took his arm, she was a rather tall and sturdy woman and Sam found himself leaning on her as they walked towards the house.

"Yes, M'am." Sam paused, he actually felt a little guilty about destroying something as old and usually peaceful as the wood spirit.

"Thank goodness. I doubt if poor Rudy will ever be the same again, and as for Agatha, I have never seen the old girl move so fast in my life". Rudy was Mr Hawksworth, a small unassuming man, who with his sister, Agatha, had encountered the spirit a few weeks before.

"They're not usually so aggressive, but sometimes.." Sam shrugged. They reached the French doors at the back of the house. Sam thought about the cream rugs and furnishings.

"Umm, Mrs Hawksworth, I don't think I should come in."

"Of course, you must. I'm sure a drink of some sort, would be in order." Mrs. Hawksworth patted his face and took his elbow.

"Come on, dear boy," she said and it was then she noticed the state of Sam's jeans. Sam was surprised such a high-pitched girlish shriek could come out of someone built along such solid lines.

"Oh, my dear child, you're injured!" Mrs. Hawksworth looked stricken and Sam suddenly wished his father could meet her, simply because everything about her, her life and her sensibilities were the complete antithesis of everything that Sam had been raised to accept and understand.

"Yeah, not quite quick enough, I'm afraid, should be okay, though." Sam twisted around trying to see just how bad the damage was. "If I could clean myself up, somewhere?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Samuel." Mrs. Hawksworth took his arm again and marched him into the house.

Half an hour later, Sam found himself face down on a genuine Italian leather couch and the house in a complete uproar. Mrs. Hawksworth had deposited him in the study and insisted on calling her own private physician. Rudy and Agatha hovered about looking shocked and repeatedly asking Sam if he was in any pain. The housekeeper had taken one look at him, made the sign of the cross, and disappeared into the kitchen muttering under her breath in Spanish.

Sam buried his face in the leather and tried desperately to pretend he was somewhere else.

S s S s S

By the time he got back to his room at Stanford, and handed back the keys to Jason's completely unreliable 1980 Toyota minivan, he had gained exactly $500 cash, fifteen stitches, and a bottle of ten-year-old whiskey, the last of which he was too young to drink.

Mrs. Hawksworth had gazed at him indulgently, thrust it into his hand, and rattled on about young men and college. As by this time, Sam's butt was almost entirely numb, courtesy of a generous shot of local anesthetic, he had nodded dumbly, and staggered out of the house, promising himself never to be so helpful again.

Two months later, he had a call from a friend of a friend. Thank you, Mrs. Hawksworth, and shortly thereafter had found himself charging around the basement of a very large house, four hours up the coast, in pursuit of a very tricky poltergeist.

Because, honestly, Sam had sworn off hunting for good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 2**

**S s S s S**

Sam stood in a small clearing, surrounded by thick forest, the trees so tall that only a small circle of starlit sky was visible. The ground at his feet was littered with brown curled leaves, and rotten slivers of wood. Spindly bare branches shook in the wind, dipping down and catching in his hair. Low moaning whispers rustled in the air, the treetops swaying silhouettes against the muted sheen of the night sky, muttering their hushed secrets to each other.

Nothing was still, shadows danced, leaves shimmered, their fallen comrades scattering along the forest floor, chased by the cool breeze that ruffled Sam's hair and tugged gently at his clothes. His eyes darted around the clearing, but it was too dark and there was too much movement to distinguish anything other than vague outlines.

Something was watching him; he could feel weight of some unseen gaze resting heavily on his back. He turned, his feet sinking into the soft, wet earth, the dank smell of decaying vegetation filling his nostrils. There, just at the edge of the clearing, flickering in and out of the shadows, was a tall cloaked figure.

Sam wanted to move, to run, but he stood rooted to the stop, his limbs heavy. The wind was picking up, rattling the branches above him, they whipped down, across his face, scratching his skin. The figure stepped forward, raising its arms to pull back the cloak.

Sam's breath caught in his throat. It was Jessica. Her face, white and perfect, her long hair shining with an inner luminescence, unmoving despite the wind. She trod softly toward him, her expression empty.

She stopped an arm's length if front of him, meeting his eyes with a dull unblinking stare.

Her mouth dropped open. "You lie, Sam. Always. Lies hurt, Sam. Lies kill." Her voice was rough and broken; her words cutting into him like so many jagged splinters.

Sam was spinning, his body twisting through the air, pulled into the black of the forest.

S s S s S

It was the sound of Dean singing in the shower that woke him. A strangled chorus of 'We are the Champions' accompanied by the low screech of ancient motel water pipes, reverberated from behind the bathroom door. Sam groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, the uneasy aftermath of his dream still fresh in his mind. His stomach gurgled threateningly and he ached in places that had no place doing so. Perhaps it had been the dubious diner special that he had the previous evening. He was fairly certain that meatloaf wasn't supposed to be that color.

The bathroom door open, billowing steam into the room and Dean bounded in, way too vigorously for Sam's liking.

"Still in beddybyes, Sammy?" A wet towel suddenly appeared and was whipped across the sheets, hitting Sam's backside with irritating accuracy.

"Fuck off." Sam mumbled into the mattress.

"Well, I suppose I should be glad you're finally getting some shut-eye, instead of moping into the early hours. Where's my coffee?" Dean's overbearing cheerfulness was starting to give Sam a headache.

Sam groaned and rolled over, squinting up at his brother. Dean was fully dressed, clean-shaven and scrubbed to a fetching pink.

"What crawled up your ass and made you Mary Poppins?" Sam tugged the covers back up to his chin, spending the day in bed was rapidly becoming the most attractive option.

"Oh, I don't know, a bit of paranormal butt-kicking always puts me in a good mood. Banish a demon, save the world. You know the routine. I'm thinking we should head east. I've heard there's an all-girl's catholic school a few counties over, that's experiencing some unexplained phenomena." Dean bent down and leered at him.

"Pervert." Sam covered his eyes with his arm. He was definitely starting to feel nauseous. He could feel his gag reflex starting to twitch; pushing off the covers, he swung his legs over the bed and sat up.

"You look like shit." Dean supplied helpfully. "Maybe it was that green meatloaf you ate last night."

Sam pushed him out of the way and stomped into the bathroom.

After deciding that throwing up was not essential to his morning routine, Sam found himself taking a lukewarm shower, which did nothing for his aching muscles. Stepping out of the bath, he looked around for towel. There were plenty slung about the bathroom, none of them dry. Sam gritted his teeth and patted himself dry with a couple of facecloths that his brother had generously overlooked.

He pulled on his sweat pants and padded back out to the bedroom, absently rubbing at his backside, Dean's skill with a wet towel still stinging. The room was empty and Sam hoped that Dean had gone in search of breakfast and a large dose of caffeine.

Sam emptied his bag on the bed, wrinkling his nose at the less than fresh scent that wafted up; the laundry standoff was reaching a critical level. He grabbed his last pair of clean underwear and was pulling them on, just as Dean kicked the room door open, precariously balancing two large coffees and a Styrofoam take-out container under his chin.

A blast of cold air hit his bare skin.

"Hey." Sam complained, hastily covering himself.

"Jeez, there's nothing I haven't seen a million times before. Unless you've gone ahead with that re-assignment surgery you've always dreamt of." Dean unloaded breakfast onto the small round table and sat down, popping off the lid of his cup.

"What happened to your butt, slip in the shower, Grandma?" Dean sipped contentedly at his coffee.

Sam froze. Unsure at what precisely Dean's comment was aimed at, his palm hovering over the offending buttock. Now he thought about it, it was throbbing painfully, heat rising through the thin cotton.

Sam craned his neck, pulling at his waistband. Three angry red scratches burned across his flesh. They hadn't been there yesterday, in fact, Sam realized unhappily, they hadn't been there for about just about four years. Long since fading into fine, pale scars, which even Jessica, had failed to notice.

It was starting out to be an inauspiciously crappy morning, Sam thought sourly, glancing across at his brother, who was attacking a huge stack of take-out pancakes with a gusto rarely seen outside of professional eating competitions.

He finished dressing and grabbed for his coffee. Dean shoved the scant remains of the pancakes at him, noisily sucking syrup of his fingers and belching in a self-satisfied manner.

"Very nice." Sam was terse.

"Sorry, Miss Manners." Dean grinned. "Someone's got to get that stick outta your ass." He was interrupted by the chirping of somebody's cell phone.

Even the stupid phone sounded cheery, Sam stabbed at his cold breakfast, immediately snapping a prong of the already sticky plastic fork. Life sucked. He was only vaguely aware of Dean answering the phone, behind him.

"Mr. Samuel Winchester, you say." Dean had Sam's cell phone. "He's currently unavailable; perhaps I could be of assistance. I'm his brother Mr. Dean Winchester."

Dean was never that polite, alarm bells clanged loudly and Sam swung round reaching for his phone. Dean hopped away, going so far as to stand on his bed and keeping a wary eye on Sam.

"The family business, yes, I'm very much involved, a senior partner you might say." Dean cocked his head, listening intently.

"Oh, Samuel has an excellent reputation, not just among your friends, I can assure you, Mrs. Hawksworth."

Fuckdamnshit.

Sam made another grab for the phone, but Dean stuck out a booted foot and pushed Sam firmly in the chest.

"Another occurrence in the acreage, hmm, we're rather busy at the moment. I should discuss this with my brother and I'll call you back shortly." Dean paused. "Of course, I'll pass the message on, nice talking to ya." Dean's voice dropped as he snapped the phone shut. He stayed on the bed, crossing his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowed and fixed on Sam.

Sam shuffled nervously. Dean really didn't look like he was in a good mood anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 3**

**S s S s S s S**

"So," Dean enounced without preamble. "Spill."

Sam suddenly found the hole in his left sock completely fascinating and stared fixedly at it, his mind running around in circles shouting useful things like 'fuck' and 'plausible deniability'.

The bedsprings creaked as Dean shifted his weight, maintaining his stance on the bed.

"Come on, Sammy, this has got to be good. I mean, either this Mrs. Hawksworth is one crazy old broad, she referred to you as, and I quote, a paranormal investigator, or my sweet little baby brother is a big fat liar." Dean's tone was light and conversational. Abandoning his wriggling toes, Sam shot a quick glance up. Dean had his poker face on, the one he wore when he had a particularly useless hand and thought he could bluff. He looked pissed.

"It wasn't like that," Sam said weakly. "I never said I was a paranormal investigator, I never said I was anything." Which wasn't entirely true, but there was no point, Sam reasoned, in pouring all the gasoline on the fire, at least not all at once. "I just helped a couple of people out, that's all." Really, honestly. Sam met Dean's gaze full on, trying to school his features into his most innocent expression, stopping just short of batting his eyelashes.

"You can drop the wounded dog act, Sam. I've had the shot, I'm immune." Dean stepped down from the bed, and went to sit by the table, swiping Sam's coffee as he did so.

"You're trying to tell me you did a couple of jobs, our type of jobs. When, where and were you ever going to tell me?" Dean swallowed a large gulp of coffee, glaring at Sam over the rim.

Sam sat down on his bed, clasping his hands in his lap and tried to look earnest. "Look Dean, it was nothing okay. A couple of incantations to rid the neighborhood of a spirit or two. Nothing to write home about." Sam winced inwardly, not the smartest thing to say, considering he had never written home, at all. "And the money really helped with school."

Dean choked, spraying coffee over the table. Okay, maybe that was the wrong thing to say.

"They paid you? Like real money?" Dean stared at him. "Oh my God, you were hustling them, weren't you? Tell me you were hustling." Dean plunked the cup down, hope shining from his eyes and before Sam could respond, "Shit, Sam you weren't tapping that old dame's ass, were you? I mean, there's a limit." Only Dean could go from being paid for a legitimate hunt to Sam giving it up for cash.

"Jesus, Dean. No, of course not. That's more your area of expertise." Which was unfair, but the conversation was veering into dangerous territory. Not long after having his ass handing to him by a tree, no less, he had been introduced to Glenda. The curvaceous, red headed and bored wife of an extremely wealthy LA stockbroker, she had all but chased him around the ground floor of her West Coast mansion. Apparently she had been impressed with Sam's sensitive handling of the fragile and delicate antiquity her husband had 'acquired', complete with curse. Sensitive and fragile Glenda was not and Sam had barely escaped without injury.

Then there had been Jeremy. A very sweet guy, who, while Sam had been trying to rid his downtown loft conversion of the spirit of some long deceased factory worker, crushed under a punch press, had informed Sam that he had the most beautiful almond eyes that he, Jeremy had ever seen and would he like to go out for dinner. Not quite understanding the comparison to a nut, Sam had plucked the proffered check from Jeremy's fingers and rushed for the door babbling about long-term relationships and girls.

Dean was eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. "Holy fuck, it's written all over your face. You little slut," he crowed, impressed. "Sam Winchester, ghost hunting gigolo. Dad's going to have kittens."

"Don't you dare. And I told you. Nothing. Happened. I was there to help." Sam realized, belatedly, that perhaps, it was best to let Dean jump to the wrong conclusion.

"Oh, I bet you helped. Was it good for you too?" Dean sneered and chugged back the last of Sam's coffee. "How much did you charge? What's the going rate for an afternoon of Winchester delight?"

Sam suppressed the urge to reach across and punch Dean squarely on the nose. Play it cool, he reminded himself, half a truth works better that a whole lie. Distraction was the name of the game. He gave a loud, overly dramatic sigh.

"The most I ever made in one go, was $2000. It took a couple of nights and left me exhausted, but it was worth it." Two nights staking out a derelict boathouse, waiting for some cantankerous old water sprite to show its ugly face, performing a hasty banishment ritual and then falling, fully clothed, into the lake. "I never set a price. People just paid whatever they thought the job was worth."

Dean was goggling at him. "Two thousand bucks, man, what did you do? No don't." He held up a hand. "I don't want to know." He stood up, shaking his head, and then paused shooting Sam a searching look.

"Is this some elaborate joke, Sammy? Because, you and the horizontal mambo for money, dude, that's just wrong. You and hunting…, you sure that demon on the plane didn't get into your head?" Dean was frowning and Sam decided it was high time he was somewhere else.

"Dean, think what you want, okay. I did a couple of jobs, got paid. End of story. And now I'm going to do the laundry." Sam hastily rounded up his crumpled clothes, twitching impatiently as Dean gathered up his own, eyeing Sam suspiciously.

Grabbing his cell phone, Sam bolted from the room. Once firmly barricaded inside the motel's laundry room, clothes sloshing boisterously in the ancient washing machine, Sam allowed himself to relax. He slumped down on the solitary plastic chair, flinching as he remembered his aching backside.

Burying his face in his hands, Sam contemplated the likelihood of nightmares full of dark forests, healed wounds reopening and an inconveniently received phone call, all happening at the same time. He could almost hear his father's voice. 'Never trust a coincidence, boys.' Shit, shit and double shit and on top of that Dean seemed to think he was some kind of rent boy. He sat for a few minutes, listening to the soothing churning of his laundry, trying to decide upon the best course of action. Preferably one that wouldn't include Dean and physical violence.

Sam reached for his cell phone, turning it over in his hand. He tapped at the display, last call in, and dialed out. Mrs. Hawksworth's line was busy. He knew, knew with a certainty that sent shivers down his spine, who it was on the line.

S s S

Sam hesitated at the room door, leaning in close, but it was quiet. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Something slammed into his side, sending him crashing to the floor and before he could respond, a heavy weight dropped onto his back pinning him to the there. One arm was wrenched behind his back.

"One or two jobs, Sammy? Nothing happened. A banishment, here or there. You are so full of crap, little brother, that I'm almost in awe." Dean voice hissed angrily in his ear. Sam tried to raise his head, squashed as it was, into the gritty motel carpet. A hand on the back of his head curtailed any movement.

"Guess what? I called your lovely Mrs. Hawksworth back, directory services being so useful and all. I suppose, given that's she an old chick, her tale of heroic college students and near fatal injuries is probably complete garbage. That and she repeated the bizarre idea that you made quite a reputation for yourself as a," Dean wound his fingers into Sam's hair, pulling his head from the floor, "hunter. Not so much hustling after all. What do you say, Sammy. Going to tell me you gave up hunting to be a good little college boy?"

Dean released his hold on Sam's hair and shoved his head back down. Sam's breathing became easier as Dean pushed away from him, and stood up. Sam stayed where he was, carefully easing his twisted arm to his side. He had forgotten how fast and painfully efficient his brother could be.

"Get up, Sam and tell me goddamn truth, now." Dean sounded as angry as Sam had ever heard him. He rubbed his nose across the carpet, rubbing at an itch. The truth. The trouble with truth, Sam thought, was its highly subjective qualities. Bracing his arms, he raised himself from the floor, rearranging himself to sit cross-legged against his bed. Dean, he figured, was less likely to kick a man when he was already down. He cradled his abused arm against his chest and blinked up at his brother.

Dean jabbed a finger at him. "You can stop that right now. I haven't pressured you about your nightmares and I've given as much space as I can, but you've been lying to me since day one. God, Sam, don't you trust me." Dean dropped his hand, sitting down heavily on Sam's bed.

Sam shut his eyes. Bastard. The guilt card. Nicely played, Dean. He opened his eyes to find Dean gazing solemnly at him.

"I'm sorry, Dean, really I am. There's not that much to tell. I thought I could leave it behind, and for a while there, I couldn't. Not until I met Jess. Then I had a reason to stop, and you're right about what you said before. I lied to her too."

"Tell me." Dean was quiet but firm

Sam offered him a half- smile. "Okay." There were, though, some things that, whatever Dean might say, he was going to keep to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 4**

**S s S s S s S**

Where to start? Sam was uncomfortable on the hard floor. Dean was still sitting on the bed above him. He heaved himself up and dropped into the nearest chair. Dean eyes following him.

Sam peered forlornly into the empty coffee cups and looked hopefully at his brother.

"Forget it; you get coffee when you spill the beans." Dean was unmoved, continuing to gaze at Sam through narrowed eyes.

Sam directed his eyes toward the ceiling, his mind running through a quick checklist of suitable facts. He cast a sideways glance across the room, calculating the probability of placating Dean with the edited highlights of Sam Winchester: Student, Supernatural Hunter. The odds were in his favor; he decided, however, there were tactical considerations. He leant forward, dropping his gaze and his voice.

"It was a while, after I left. About nine months or so. I overheard one of my professors talking. I don't know why, but I offered to help and that's how I met Mrs. Hawksworth. Real nice lady and after that, I guess it kind of grapevined. And, yeah, it was more than a couple of banishments. Maybe every few months, for about two years." Sam shifted in his seat. "Then I met Jess and, well, the hunting fizzled out." So had he, almost. Not that Dean needed to know that.

"A few gigs, always minor players. I kept my head down. Believe me, Dean," Sam met his brother's eyes, "anything too hot to handle, I would have called. Whatever Dad said."

Dean bristled. Bingo.

"Dad didn't expect you to go hunting, Sam. He thought you ran off to college. If he had thought for a second, that you were running around out there, on your own. Well, he would have..."

"Would have what, Dean? Backed me up, hauled my ass back home? Told me never to darken his door again? It's not something I planned, but like you keep telling me, it's what we do." Sam was careful to keep his voice low and steady and his eyes firmly fixed on his brother's face. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Got used to keeping it a secret, I guess."

Sam paused, allowing a little hitch in his breath. "Come on, man, aren't you pleased that I stayed in the game for a while? Even just a little." This time Sam dropped his gaze to the floor, rubbing his arm in a distracted manner, and consciously tensing his shoulders.

"Yes. No. That's not the point, Sam. We thought you were safe at college. Look, I know you and Dad had the mother of all fights, but he still cared. We missed you. Our first few hunts after you left, they just weren't the same. Our timing was all out of whack. We didn't have the same rhythm, had a couple of close calls." Dean's voice wavered ever so slightly. Sam peered up through his bangs. Dean was becoming agitated. Sam started an internal countdown, five, four, three, two… Dean leapt up from the bed and started pacing around the room.

"He could have called." Sam said mildly. "You did, and you never mentioned it then."

Dean stopped, his back to Sam. The stiff shoulders and slowly clenching fingers were an obvious indication to Sam of his still effective ability to aggravate his brother. Sam felt the briefest flicker of guilt and ruthlessly quashed it.

Once, when Sam was about nine, they had spent a rainy weekend practicing knots. Sam had tied Dean, a willing volunteer, to a kitchen chair. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. Dean wriggling free in a minute or so. Then it had been Sam's turn, Dean had secured him to the chair, and as Sam struggled uselessly against his brothers efficient bindings, he had tauntingly waved goodbye and retreated to the TV and couch. Sam had squirmed and writhed and hyperventilated, but to no avail. Two hours later, Dean had returned and laughingly, released him. It had been a valuable lesson. Sam eventually gained his revenge. He learnt to be subtle, the physical and skill advantage lay with Dean, but Sam would watch and listen, cataloguing his brother's quirks and habits and striking when least expected. The ensuing skirmishes were usually hostile and brief.

Dean swung round. "This isn't about Dad, or whatever. It's about you lying about not hunting." He was angry again.

"I never lied. You and Dad assumed. Not my fault." Sam stood up. "You didn't tell me about everything you and Dad got up to, and after that debacle in New Mexico. Hell, you didn't even call." Sam lifted his chin and glared defiantly at Dean, immediately prompting the expected reaction.

"I didn't call. Me?" Dean's voice was perilously close to squeaking. "You miserable little shit, it wasn't me who stopped calling, it was you. You're the one who was bleating about dangerous the job was, and how fucked up it all was. You. Not me."

"Bet you didn't tell Dad about it though, did you? How you came to Stanford and begged me to help you out," Sam waggled his fingers in the air and pitched his voice to an improbable falsetto, "just this once." Dean hated it when he did that.

"You know what, Sam. Fuck you." Dean wheeled about, threw the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

Sam hung his head, wanting to feel guilty, but falling a little short. Too many years of keeping his head down, keeping his mouth shut, too long pretending that his life was no different from the guy next door. He gazed, unseeing at the door, idly shifting through recent memories. When was the last time that he had told anyone the unvarnished truth, about anything? Sam frowned, rubbing at his forehead. Had he ever? God, what a damning admission. Maybe when he was small, but ever since he was old enough to understand the circumstances of his life, the truth had been a rare commodity.

People didn't want to know the truth, he thought darkly. People chose what they wanted to believe and believe in and dismissed everything else that didn't jive with their worldview. Somewhere along the line, Sam had stopped choosing. It made life that much simpler. At leas, that's what he kept telling himself.

A noise from the door pulled him from his inner musings. Dean stepped back into the room. He was breathing heavily, as he leaned back against the door to shut it.

They stared at each other. Dean gave him a wry smile, brought his hands together, and clapped, slowly and deliberately.

"Man, you're good. Much better than I remember. Courtesy, no doubt, of an expensive college education. Redirection 101, you must have passed that class with honors." Dean pushed away from the door, brushing past Sam; he grabbed a jacket from the top of the dresser and threw it at him.

"Come on, I'll buy you one of those expensive, frothy coffees you're so fond of."

Sam clutched at his jacket, wary. Dean was back at the door, gesturing Sam through.

"You're going to buy me coffee?" Sam pulled his jacket on, "You're being reasonable, you don't do reasonable."

"Oh, ye of little faith. It's quite simple. You're not telling me everything, apart from trying to bullshit me into an early grave; quite successfully, I might add. So I can only conclude that you're either incredibly embarrassed because you were, in fact, completely fucking useless or because, you weren't." Dean tilted his head and gazed speculatively at Sam. "In which case, you don't want to tell me, 'cos you think I'm gonna go postal on your ass. Ergo, you were up to your neck in some nasty shit." Dean crossed his arms, and smiled pleasantly.

"Ergo," Sam repeated dimly, realizing he should have stuck with his original assessment of the day and stayed in bed.

"If it helps, at all. I'm sorry." Dean was matter-of-fact.

"Sorry. What for?" Sam was genuinely perplexed.

"I'm sorry for not being there with you, for you thinking that you had to go it alone. You have to know that, Sam."

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Have I told you how much I hate it when you're perceptive?"

"Strangely enough, I'm not reassured by that remark. You know what they say, Sammy, confession is good for the soul." Dean was lounging against the door, exuding a studied air of bonhomie and insouciance, and Sam noted, effectively blocking the only exit.

Sam sat down on his bed again, although he was pathologically opposed to the idea, it probably wouldn't kill him to tell Dean, something.

"Okay. You got me." Sam clutched at his chest and rolled his eyes, falling back onto the bed. "Fire away."

Dean leapt over, bouncing down by Sam's feet. "How many?"

"Christ, I don't remember exactly, ow." Dean pinched at his calf. "Thirteen."

"Unlucky. Where?" Dean's hand rested threateningly on his ankle.

"Bully. West coast, mainly. Spitting distance from school. Did one in Mexico, spring break kind of deal. Ghost of a tourist, food poisoning, hotel - third floor"

"What else?"

"Let me see. Couple of regular ghosts, a nixie, poltergeists, one reasonably elaborate hoax – don't ask. A displaced Burmese Nat, a cursed antique jar, and an ooser mask." Sam relaxed into the comforter, the hand on his ankle warm and not particularly comforting.

"I think you missed one."

Try two or three, Sam thought glibly.

"Big ol' guardian of the forests. When trees attack. Mrs. Hawksworth." Dean's grip tightened.

"I told you, my first job. Some type of tree sprite, old and aggressive. It was mooching around and jumping out at people. I torched the sucker." Sam wondered about the phone call, in his rather self-involved alarm he'd forgotten. "Has it come back?" He sat up, and felt something give, a sharp slash of pain at the top of his thigh.

"Yeah, your lady friend said that something's prowling around, out in the woods. She seemed to think it was dangerous. More so than last time." Dean leaned in. "You okay? You're looking pasty."

Sam pushed his hand down the back of his jeans, his fingers met with warmth. He pulled his hand out, palm up. It was covered with blood. Wide eyed with shock he stared at his brother.

"What the hell?" Dean grabbed his hand. "What did you do?" He leapt up and darted into the bathroom, returning with a towel. "Here, take this." He draped the cloth over Sam's hand.

"It's not my hand, Dean." Sam slid his feet to the floor, gingerly pushing himself up. Unbuttoning his fly, he pulled his waistband down a few inches. His underwear clung to his skin, red and soaked. The earlier scratches had ripped open.

Dean was staring at Sam's backside, looking equal parts appalled and confused.

"Am I missing something here, Sam? Does your butt cheek always do that?

Sam took the towel Dean had given him and pressed it against his skin, hissing in pain.

Swallowing back a groan, he shook his head.

"Four years ago, when I tangled with the tree spirit, it got in a good swipe at me. Fifteen stitches." Sam nodded his head, gesturing down at the bloody towel. "It was aching this morning, but I could still hardly see the old scars. Mrs. Hawksworth calls, and now look. What's happening, Dean?" He tried to keep the plaintive whine from his voice.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "God knows. Maybe it left some sort of residue behind. " He sighed, "Only you, Sammy. Let's clean you up." He took Sam by the arm and steered him back to the bed. Grunting Sam lowered himself; face down, onto the mattress, debating as to whether he should mention his dream. He thought of Jess, her cold accusations and decided not to.

Dean was rummaging through his bag, locating their scattered first aid supplies. He came and perched on the edge of the bed.

"Attending to your ass, really does go above and beyond the call of brotherly duty." Dean grabbed a packet of gauze and ripped it open.

"I'm touched." Sam muttered.

"Although, you've got to admit, it's not something we come across very often." Dean was emptying the contents of a small bottle onto another, cleaner towel.

"What's that?" Sam flinched as Dean slapped the antiseptic-laced fabric down on his buttock.

Dean grinned, a little too broadly in Sam's opinion. "Psychic butt scars."


	5. Chapter 5

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 5**

_**S s S s S**_

Sam suppressed a hiss of pain as the Impala hit another pothole. He was perched awkwardly in his seat, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on his backside. Dean took no notice, his eyes fixed on the road ahead; he had turned up the music to drown out any attempt at conversation. Sam flinched as the car bounced again. They still hadn't hit the highway and the road they were on seemed in dire need of repair. Dean leaned forward in his seat, as if catching sight of something of interest ahead.

A few seconds later Sam's seat juddered under him and he cried out, "Jesus, Dean. How far to the interstate?"

Dean smirked and looked entirely too pleased with himself.

The niggling suspicion he'd been harboring burst forth. " Oh, my God. You're doing it deliberately," Sam was outraged. Dean's arm twitched and the car veered toward the roadside, bumped the outer edge of the pavement, and then slid back to centre-lane. Sam gritted his teeth and reached over and punched the cassette eject button.

"Very mature. What, first you refuse to talk to me, and now this? Man, I never knew you could be so petty."

"Sammy, Sammy. I have no idea what you're talking about. We have talked; I am now very much enlightened and now we are driving to see your Mrs. Hawksworth. Once there, I'm sure we shall talk some more and solve the riddle of your supernaturally compromised butt. I suggest you relax and enjoy the ride." Dean kept his eyes on the road, taking one hand off the steering wheel to push the cassette back.

Sam was momentarily stumped. An angry, sarcastic Dean he could deal with, if not encourage. However, this placid and condescending version was irritating him beyond his capacity for a pithy response.

"Dude. Don't talk to me like I'm six years old." Sam raised his voice, Dean ignored him. "I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry I omitted telling you everything. Look, can't we just..." Sam shouted over a spirited drum solo and was just drawing breath for his next word when Dean turned off the music.

"There's no need to shout, Sam. What was that you were sorry about again, your omissions or emissions? I get them confused. Or were you trying to apologize for, hmm, I don't know." Dean tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his chin. "Lying?"

"I didn't …," Sam stopped as Dean stepped down on the gas and car leapt forward. "Okay, okay, before you kill us trying to make your lame-ass point, I'm sorry"

"What was that?" Dean cupped a hand to his ear. "I didn't quite catch it."

Sam rolled his eyes and then winced as his shifted his position. He turned to face his brother and attempted to school his face into the appropriate contrite expression. "Yeah, I get it. Dean, I am sorry I lied to you about hunting. Or not hunting or whatever way you see it. If there's anything you want to know, just ask." Sam wasn't sure if he really was sorry, he suspected not, but Dean giving him the cold shoulder made him feel tense and nervous.

"See, that didn't hurt too much, did it now?" Dean shot him a smile and spun the steering wheel, turning the Impala into a sudden U-turn.

Sam slid across his seat and yelped. "What the hell are you doing?"

"The interstate turn-off is about five miles back, if we're going to get to Oregon a.s.a.p, we need to hustle."

'Never mind petty, that's just, just… vindictive." Sam spluttered indignantly and fell back into his seat. He groaned and rested his head against the window. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable drive.

Somewhere into the next state, Sam's eyelids began to droop and his mind began slowing sliding into a drowsy stupor.

**S s S s S**

_His feet made no sound of the soft floor of the forest. The light was dim and through trees, he could see the dull flush of orange beginning to spread across the sky as the sun began to rise._

_The world around him was silent. Branches shook, a bird flew overhead, all ambient sound muted. Sam opened his mouth, but his voice was swallowed into nothingness. He was in the same clearing, standing on the edge, beneath the trees. Someone was lying stretched out in the centre of the clearing. Arms flung out on either side, sunk into the brown leaves. Sam took a hesitant step forward and another. As he came closer, he heart began to vibrate soundlessly in his chest. _

_It was Dean. Spread-eagled, on his back, his eyes wide open to the brightening sky and small smile on his lips. Sam stumbled and dropped to his knees, the cold chill of the earth immediately soaking through his clothes. He reached out for his brother and then stopped, his hand hovering above Dean's shoulder. Dean's mouth was moving, Sam could see his lips form the words, but the heavy silence still filled his ears. _

_Sam felt something pulling at him, he was being dragged backwards. He grabbed for Dean, but it was too late, he was sliding across the earth, back into the forest, his fingers digging into the soil as he tried to resist. The leaves covering the clearing began to flutter over the ground. They swirled into the air, spinning around Dean. Eddying in the air faster and faster, until all Sam could see was a dark twisting mass that obliterated all in the clearing. He opened his mouth and screamed._

**S s S s S**

The harsh sound of his own voice jerked Sam awake; his head snapped sideways and met the window with a resounding smack.

"What the fuck? Sam. You okay?" Dean sounded amused. Sam blinked and turned to his brother, who was watching him speculatively. The car wasn't moving and Sam peered blearily out of the window, they were parked in front of a busy looking truck stop.

"Huh." Sam felt a little fuzzy around the edges.

"You were dreaming. Again. Going to tell me what that one was about?" Dean held his gaze and Sam turned away, he answered enough questions today, thank you very much.

"Figured as much. Guess you can't lie in your sleep. Come on. You need to eat." Dean pushed open his door.

Sam followed Dean into the diner, rubbing at the tender spot on his temple. Dean was way too hung up on this honesty thing; Sam glared at his brother's back. All this from the man who had a least twenty different credit cards, in various names, on hand.

They sat uncomfortably close, knees colliding, squashed together in a small booth, at the back of the restaurant. Sam hid behind his menu and tried to breathe through the lingering sense of panic that had accompanied the dream and Dean's pointed inquisition. Apparently his sub-conscious was trying to tell him something, it was bad enough having Dean poking around in things he would rather forget; now it seemed his own mind was trying to get in on the act. Dean noisily cleared his throat; Sam peeked over the top of the menu.

"We should be in Eugene in a day or two, but I think you should fill me in with the details."

Sam dropped his menu on the table and stared blankly at Dean. Dean sighed.

"The job, Sam. I need a rundown of what happened last time. Your research. Who, where, when and why. You know? A starting point. You mentioned a tree sprite. Did you determine its origin?"

"Determine its origin? I came, I saw, I torched. I'd imagine you would appreciate the simplicity of that approach." Sam cursed inwardly, God, give the guy an inch and he takes a freakin' mile. Liars might never prosper but most of them didn't have Dean Winchester as an older brother.

Dean was unperturbed; he leaned back in his seat and continued. "Look, Boy Wonder, our client seems to think that whatever it was before or something very like it, has returned. If you, i.e. we, knew exactly what that was, it would be a start." Dean glanced around the diner, raising a hand to the server. He turned back to Sam. "Sprites are often a physical embodiment of the local inhabitant's belief system. Do you think it was is a manifestation of Old World beliefs or was it a more in keeping with the lore and superstitions of the local indigenous peoples?"

Sam stared even harder. It was possible, he thought, that he was suffering from some form of early onset dementia. Maybe he was even having a psychotic break; it would certainly explain a lot. Although he was confident that hallucinations weren't usually so smug.

"What?" Dean was trying not to smirk. "I can read, you know, study."

"Gosh, Dean, I didn't realize Playboy ran articles on animism." Sam sniped.

Dean didn't even have the good grace to look insulted. "Pastor Jim has many, many fine books on the subject and I was bored..." Dean was interrupted by the arrival of their server.

They ordered. Sam went with chicken noodle soup, his unruly stomach still threatening rebellion. Dean's question about the nature of the tree spirit irked more than he liked to admit. It was true, he hadn't done much research, and he was annoyed that he felt embarrassed by it.

He poked apathetically at his soup, while across the tabletop; Dean tore into a large order of burger and fries.

Sam huffed and dropped his spoon; it clattered noisily against his plate. "Look, I checked out some of local folk tales, went into the history of the estate. Nothing. The woodland has never been built on, no known settlements. No reason for it to be disturbed. I assumed it was a one off occurrence and dealt with it accordingly. And don't look at me like that."

Dean had paused mid-chew, disapproval wrinkling his brow. "So, you spent an afternoon in the local library, came up empty-handed, and just left it. Sloppy work, Sam. Good thing Dad..."

"Don't go there Dean," Sam cut him off. God, the day was going from bad to worse, he tried to pinpoint when exactly it was that he let the day get away from him. Oh yeah. When he woke up.

Dean grinned nastily, and stuffed the rest of the burger into his mouth.

**S s S s S**

They were back in the car heading west. Sam sat picking at his hangnails and reviewing his policy on honesty or lack thereof. He snuck a glance at his brother. God and his minions only knew what his reaction would be if Dean got wind of some of Sam's other, rather less successful exploits. There was probably a lesson buried somewhere in there, one Sam was disinclined to explore.

He realized Dean was talking.

"Hey, Sam. Why don't you fill me in on Mrs. Hawksworth? Susceptible to the old Winchester charm, was she? Of course, you were still a teenager, she probably wanted to pinch your cheeks and feed you."

"She did give me a bottle of whiskey." Sam admitted and had an immediate flashback to the demise of said whiskey. It was the first time he had ever been so totally and completely wasted. He and Jason had woken up in a park about three mile from campus, liberally stained with vomit and wearing somebody else's clothes. "I gave it to one of my professors."

Dean perked up. "I like her already. Call her. If we drive all night, we'll be there tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 6**

_**S s S s S**_

Dean pulled up outside the grey stone house, and let out a low whistle.

"Rich bitch, eh Sammy? You know, I sometimes wonder about your priorities and such. Were all your other hunts like this? Top end of the market stuff." Dean's voice held a note of disdain.

Sam sighed, the last thing he wanted to hear right now was Dean's man-of-the-people, blue-collar hero crap. The last time had been when he had announced his intention to go to college, the words 'class traitor' and 'conservative conformist' had been bandied about with tedious frequency. Sam had expressed his surprise that Dean had even been awake during political studies and the argument had devolved into a shouting match that had ended abruptly when Sam had yelled 'Bolshevik' rather loudly and attracted the unwelcome attention of their father. That ensuing discussion had bypassed civil, headed straight for the can and stayed there.

"They're nice people, Dean. Okay. And since when do you care? Or is yearly income a deciding factor in ghost hunting." Sam replied defensively. This could be awkward. He had known Dean to be more that just a little confrontational when mixing with those he snidely referred to as the 'social cream'. Sam was never quite sure what that meant and was not that keen to find out.

Dean muttered something under his breath and got out of the car. Sam followed reluctantly. The bright red front door flew open and Mrs. Hawksworth appeared at the doorstep. Her hair had more grey than Sam remembered, but her cheerful voice rang as loudly and clearly as before.

"Samuel, my dear boy." She hurried down the front steps, across the wide gravel driveway, hands outstretched in welcome.

"So good of you to come so quickly." With both hands she grasped his. "My goodness, is it possible that you've grown?"

Sam felt his cheeks flushing. He squeezed her hand.

"It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Hawksworth. This is my brother, Dean."

Mrs. Hawksworth dropped his hand and turned toward his brother. Sam swallowed nervously. Please Dean, be nice. Dean was leaning against the car, the collar of his leather jacket turned up, a studied portrait in cool. Sam was of the opinion that it was possible Dean had seen 'Rebel without a Cause' one too many times.

Dean smiled and inclined his head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." He stuck out his hand, widening his eyes and gave Mrs. Hawksworth a look that Sam usually associated with smoky, ill-lit bars, mini skirts, and high heels.

"Sam's told me about your previous problem and I must thank you for patching him up." Dean leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice in a conspiratory tone. "Kid's always getting into scrapes."

No way was Mrs. Hawksworth going fall that, Sam decided. Dean's unique brand of sleazy charm was better suited for females several decades younger. Mrs. Hawksworth clasped Dean's hand warmly and looked distinctly flustered. Or not.

"Welcome to Evergreen House, Mr. Winchester."

Mr. Winchester? Sam groaned inwardly, Dean was going to be even more insufferable now. Mrs. Hawksworth let go of Dean's hand and reached out for the car. She gently patted the roof.

"Is this a Chevy Impala? What a beautiful car. Late sixties, I would guess?"

Dean looked surprised and gratified. "1967. You know your cars?"

Mrs. Hawksworth nodded and smiled. "After my father left the army, he was a used-car salesman. He ended up with one of the largest dealerships on the West coast. "

Sam doubted if anybody else would have noticed, but Dean's demeanor shifted immediately. The tension from his shoulders dropped away and a broad, genuine grin spread across his face. He held out his arm to Mrs. Hawksworth.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell us the latest about your, uh, shall we say, small problem?"

Sam's eyes widened in disbelief, as far as he could tell Mrs. Hawksworth was a couple of cents short of actually simpering.

She took Dean's arm and led him to her front door. "I'd be delighted, young man."

They left Sam standing on the drive, contemplating the stones at his feet. The nerve of the guy, after what he accused Sam of doing. Affronted, Sam decided that was how he felt right now. It was a good word; he rolled it around on his tongue, silently. Not that Dean would care; he and Mrs. Hawksworth had disappeared into the house.

Sam sighed and stepped forward, crunching loudly across the gravel. He reached the steps that led to the door and stopped, he eyes drawn upwards. He didn't know why, but he had the uneasy sensation that someone was watching him. A window above the front door was open, sheers fluttered around the glass. Sam squinted, trying to see if there was anybody at the window. It was impossible to tell, he dropped his gaze, and as he did, a sharp sudden pain hit him right between his eyes, like the brutal impact of bony knuckles against his skull. Sam grunted, screwing his eyes shut and pressed an open palm to his suddenly throbbing forehead, and then as quickly as it had hit, the pain ebbed away.

Sam blinked and instinctively glanced back up. The window was now shut. Sam stared at the window, teeth worrying at the inside of his bottom lip. He turned a full 360, taking in the large house, the long drive, and the woods that started behind the house and rose up covering the hills beyond.

It was all much as he remembered from his previous excursion, but there was something..., different. Sam shook his head, no, that wasn't right. He looked towards the dark green of the forest. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. It's not different, he thought, it's wrong. Something's off. Sam exhaled noisily. No shit, Sherlock, what was your first clue? Unconsciously rubbing his behind, he slowly climbed the steps and went into the house.

At some point in the last four years, the interior of the house had been redecorated. Sam was surprised at how easily he remembered the layout of a house he had only been in once before. He followed the sound of voices down the hall and into the large, modern kitchen.

Dean was standing by a large pine table as Mrs. Hawksworth introduced him to her husband; his sister and a man of about forty or so, with dark hair and a suit that even Sam could tell cost more than he and Dean were likely to see that year. He seemed vaguely familiar. They all turned as he shuffled into the room.

"Ah, there you are, Samuel. You remember my husband Rudy and my sister-in-law Agatha." Mr. Hawksworth bobbed his shiny head, while Agatha nodded distantly. Her hair hung straight and long around her face and although Sam was not well versed in all things feminine, he thought it unlikely that a woman in her mid sixties would have such jet-black hair.

"And this is my nephew, Alan Blaine." The man in the expensive suit stepped forward, but did not offer his hand.

"Hmm, Sam Winchester. So, you're the one who dropped out after a promising start. I hope you don't make a habit of leaving a job half done." Blaine was curt and his blue eyes sharp and appraising.

Heat rose in Sam's face and his stomach clenched as he made the connection between the man and his words. "Professor Blaine," he said, realizing who the man was.

"What? Oh yes, my brother." Blaine wrinkled up his nose in apparent distaste. "He thought you were one of the most promising students he'd ever had. Which is probably why he's rotting away in academia and I am a senior partner. "

"Alan!" Mrs. Hawksworth said firmly. "Enough. These young men are here at my invitation. I do not believe that you are."

Sam looked across at Dean; his brother's face was pinched in anger, his hand twitched toward the front of his jacket. Great, reaching for a weapon. Sam caught his eye and gave a small shake of his head.

Dean scowled and dropped his hand. "It's a good thing we're in mixed company, Mr. Blaine."

The arch emphasis on the word 'mister' was impossible to miss. Sam shifted anxiously; Dean was attempting to add subtlety to his repertoire of threatening behavior, never a good sign.

Blaine's lips twitched, he appeared to be suppressing a smile, and he shook his head. "Aunt Millie, you have the strangest taste in house guests, what can I say."

"Goodbye?" Dean offered, his hands jammed firmly in his pockets. Sam knew he was trying to restrain himself, such attempts usually met with limited success, and for once Sam wasn't so sure he wanted Dean to behave himself. Maybe this was a mistake, coming back. Life wasn't so simple any more and right now, he was getting tired of his past rising up and slapping him in the face. Sam clenched his fists, his palms were clammy, and he was starting to feel lightheaded.

"An excellent suggestion, Mr. Winchester. Goodbye, Alan. And thank you for your advice. Unasked for, as it was." Mrs. Hawksworth beamed cheerfully at her nephew; she briskly stepped forward and guided him to the kitchen door, startling Sam with a sly wink as she passed him.

Dean came around the table and moved next to Sam. "Asshole. And you wanted to be a lawyer. You okay?" He asked in a low voice.

"I'm fine." Sam found his brother's quiet concern unsettling. He glanced over at Rudy and Agatha. Rudy had sat down at the table and was sipping a cup of coffee, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. Agatha had not moved and was staring at Sam with pale grey eyes, as he met her gaze she dropped her head and her hair fell forward again, hiding her lined face. Sam winced as a faint ripple of pain washed across his temples.

"I should have plugged him." Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder and steered him towards one of the chairs at the table. "Here sit down, you look like crap."

"Stop saying that, you're giving me a complex." Sam sat down heavily, gravity taking over as his knees suddenly lost interest in keeping him upright, and they weren't the only body parts that were slacking off, the room was starting to spin and his head felt very heavy. Oh God, Sam thought miserably, I am not going to pass out, but despite his protests, the room and Dean slid away into a fuzzy haze.


	7. Chapter 7

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 7**

_**S s S s S**_

_For a moment, he thought he was floating, that is was the harsh sting of icy water biting into his skin, but he realized the surface beneath his back was solid. He tried to move his deadened limbs and as he did, his body sank lower, an unseen force sucking him deeper into the bitter gloom that surrounded him. He opened his eyes, black dots danced before him, he blinked. Not dots, fallen leaves. Fragile, skeletal patterns of brown and gold lace, they brushed against his face, jumped and skittered over him. He felt as if he were slowly spinning, rising and falling, a speck of dust carried on the wind and each time tumbling a little further back into the grasping maw of the cold earth. His shoulders and head tipped back. The dirt rose up over his face, smothering his nose and mouth, weighing down his eyelids, pushing at him until he was buried under the forest floor._

S s S s S

"Sam, Sam." The voice came from somewhere above, and someone lightly tapped his face. His sluggish senses grudgingly began to filter information through to him. He was lying on a hard floor and a firm hand was cradling the back of his head. He felt hot and cold and nauseous. Maybe it was time to open his eyes or move or somehow indicate his return to consciousness, Sam wasn't convinced there would be any benefit from such impulsive behavior, so he stayed as he was.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Winchester. Poor Samuel. Alan can be rather abrasive at times. Should I call for an ambulance?" Mrs. Hawksworth was upset, which was all very well, but what kind of pathetic shrinking violet did she think he was? Did she think really think he passed out because some arrogant tool of a lawyer was mean to him? Sam thought he probably should crack open an eye and let her know he was made of sterner stuff than that.

Warm fingertips pressed gently against his throat, holding steady. Sam counted down ten beats.

"No, no. I think he's okay. His pulse is good. He was feeling a bit out of it yesterday. And he hasn't eaten much. If at all. Damn." Dean's voice dropped and the hand supporting Sam's head flexed and lifted him slightly.

Oh please, low blood sugar? Dean obviously had him confused with a hysterical teenage girl. Sam tried to marshal his muscles into moving. There was a totally logical explanation for taking a header onto Mrs. Hawksworth handcrafted Mexican tiles, Sam just wasn't sure what it was, yet.

"We could call Dr. Browne, Millie. He was very understanding and discreet before." This voice was soft and hesitant. It was Agatha.

That was it. Dr. Browne had stitched him up last time, getting up close and personal with parts of Sam's anatomy that he generally preferred to keep under wraps. The prospect of the good doctor being called upon to attend to Sam as if he were some overwrought heroine in a cheesy romance novel, who keeled over at the slightest hint of peril, was all the motivation he needed. Sam heaved his eyelids open. Four worried faces peered down at him. Dean was kneeling next to him on the kitchen floor, while Mrs. Hawksworth, Rudy, and Agatha stood around him.

"Thank goodness. How are you feeling, Samuel?" Mrs. Hawksworth bent down, wringing her hands as she spoke.

"Fine," he rasped. The word was out of his mouth before his stop it. Dean tightened his grip in his hair and then slid his arm around Sam's back to pull him into a sitting position

"You think so, Sam. Fine. It's not a word I'd normally associate with falling flat on my face, but whatever. Do you think you can get up?" Dean was decidedly unimpressed.

Sam wiggled his toes, flexing his leg muscles. Everything appeared to be in working order.

"Give me a hand." He hung onto Dean and together they stood up, Sam swayed briefly, before relaxing his grip on his brother's arm.

"It lives," Dean muttered dryly and instead of stepping back and giving Sam some breathing room, he reached up and put a hand to Sam's forehead and then to Sam's increasing embarrassment gripped his chin, pulling it down so he could scrutinize his face.

"Do you think he should lie down? Dear me, where are my manners? Let me show you to one of the guest rooms." Mrs. Hawksworth spoke to Dean.

Sam opened his mouth to respond with a resounding 'no' but Dean's fingers were still pinching his chin.

"Thanks. Good idea. I'll get him settled and after, as we are here to do a job, you can fill me in on what's been happening." Dean relinquished his hold on Sam's face, grabbed him by the elbow, and pushed him onto a chair. Something cold was pressed into his hand and Sam looked up to find Rudy sliding a large glass of orange juice across the table. Rudy gave him a rueful smile.

Lie down, get him settled, Jesus, he wasn't some wayward toddler. Sam took a large swig of juice and tugged at Dean's sleeve.

"Look, man, I'm okay. Let's just leave it. I've probably just got a touch of the 'flu." Not so much a lie, Sam reasoned, as wishful thinking. "We've both been way worse and managed."

Dean eyed him with open disbelief and turned back to their host. "Lead the way Mrs. Hawksworth, Sam gets cranky when he hasn't had his nap."

Rudy and Agatha gazed at him solemnly as Dean herded him from the room, following Mrs. Hawksworth up the wide oak staircase.

Sam had not had many chances in his life to live or stay anywhere that wasn't budget priced, subsidized, someone's couch, or on one or two memorable occasions derelict and if this was how the other half treated their guests, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The guest room, with feather-soft twin beds and a large picture window overlooking the back lawn and woodland, was a ruthless assault in pink toned chintz. It was everywhere, from the drapes, to the lampshades, to the coverlets and cushions on the beds and to the wallpaper that mercifully only covered one wall.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught his brother flinching. Dean gave a small aborted gargle of alarm, which he quickly covered with a halfhearted cough.

Mrs. Hawksworth had preceded them into the room and was standing by the window, she pointed to the end of the garden.

"It's very odd, you know, Samuel, but can you see the spot where you so bravely dispatched that strange being?" Sam ignored Dean's exaggerated eye roll and went to the window.

It was hard to distinguish anything in the wild tangle of tall grass and low bushes that grew beyond the garden fence. It looked more overgrown than he remembered, but he squinted obligingly through the glass.

"There a small tree there now, a red alder, or so the gardener tells me. It seemed to spring up almost overnight. I noticed it not long after you were here. Not that we venture into the woods much anymore." Mrs. Hawksworth turned from the window. "You still look pale my dear, why don't you lie down and I'll get Lotte to rustle up something.

"Lotte?" Sam remembered a dour faced woman by the name of Carmen bustling about in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hawksworth looked unhappy. "You may recall our previous housekeeper, Carmen. Such a wonderful cook. She left us only about three weeks ago. She told me she refused to work here when the Devil was living next door." She glanced back at the window. "Rudy was quite distraught. Lotte came highly recommended, but there's only so much sauerkraut a person can take. She does however, make a passable coffee cake. I'll be in the kitchen, Mr. Winchester." She smiled at Dean and patting Sam on the arm, Mrs. Hawksworth left them and went downstairs.

"The Devil doesn't only live in the woods; it looks like he's been trying his hand at interior design." Dean shuddered. "Here." He pushed Sam towards the nearest bed. "You are going have a nice little rest, and I'm going to eat cake and see what kind of mess you bravely left behind four years ago."

Sam kicked of his shoes and flopped down onto the bed, a waft of lavender rose into the air, the room's decor might be a threat to his masculinity, but God, the bed was ridiculously comfortable.

"Yeah. Sure. Don't choke." Sam closed his eyes. "You know that alder trees were believed to ward of evil spirits and help increase second sight." The bed dipped, Dean was perching on the edge.

"Really. Could be relevant, I guess. So, how do you feel, Sammy? And for God's sake and mine cut the freakin' bullshit. I don't need you fainting on my ass if the herbaceous border decides to get a little frisky."

Sam peered up through his eyelashes; Dean was grimacing at the wallpaper.

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a wad. I admit it, I feel like crap. I don't why I went down like that; maybe it's because of whatever made, you know, those old scratches reopen." Sam replied, surprised at his own honesty and although he wanted to, the words he needed to tell Dean about the ambiguous sense of 'wrongness' he had experienced when they arrived, remained stubbornly lodged in his throat.

Dean looked down at him thoughtfully. "Well, that is why we're here. Hey, remember the first time you took a nosedive on the job? You were twelve, thirteen. We were hunting that psycho Wampus cat in Tennessee. Man, your face when you saw what that thing did to that deer. White as a sheet and bam! Face plant into the mud." He chuckled quietly and Sam closed his eyes again. It was unlikely that he would ever forget that particular hunt, its memory scorched into his impressionable young mind.

S s S s S

It had been one of Sam's first real hunts; John Winchester had finally decided he could participate in more than just the research. His father and Dean had been ahead of him, tracking the vicious creature through the thin trees of the wetlands. It had been hot, humid, and hard going over the soggy ground. He had heard his father shouting to Dean and before the words had died away, an unearthly wail had cut through the trees, followed by an agonized scream that was silenced abruptly and then several gunshots, in rapid succession. Sam's heart had stalled in his chest and desperately pulling his feet from the sticky ground; he had launched himself into a dense thicket of bushes.

Blood was everywhere, dripping from overhanging branches, coating the leaves and swirling into the muddy surface water. Shiny loops of intestines snaked across the ground, ripped sheaths of muscles still twitched amid the flattened grass, and ragged gobbets of flesh were strewn throughout the undergrowth. Across from the carnage stood his father, splattered with gore, his rifle lowered to the ground and at his feet the large twisted corpse of the cat. Unable to breathe, Sam had met his eyes and then the world had dissolved into nothingness.

He had come to back at the car, propped up in the back seat. He could hear voices. His father's low tones saying, "No choice, Dean. It's part of the job, he's just going to have to get used to it."

His father had handed him a soda, ruffled his hair and like always, they had moved on. Dean had foregone riding shotgun, and sat with him in the back seat, at every sharp turn or bump in the road, throwing a hand to his forehead and squeaking 'Oh, my' before theatrically slumping sideways. It had been a long ride home.

Looking back, Sam realized it had been the beginning of the end. An initiation into his father's obsession that had instilled in him the determination to make his own choices in life and neither John nor Dean Winchester had even noticed.

S s S s S

Dean slapped Sam's knee. "I guess I shouldn't mock a man while he's down." The bed shifted as he stood. "This shouldn't take long and then we'll hit the nearest Super 8 and get at it again tomorrow.

Sam opened his eyes and watched his brother step toward the door.

"Dean." His voice rose a notch.

Dean stopped in the doorway. "Hmm, what?"

"You want to know why I fainted that day?" Sam was trying for nonchalant but the nervous pounding in his ears was making his voice shake.

"Uh, you were a squeamish kid on his first hunt?" Dean shrugged.

Sam took a deep breath; he'd never been able to tell anyone before, through circumstance, and by choice.

"I fainted because I thought it was you." No longer able to look at his brother, Sam stared at the window. "I thought that fucking thing had ripped you to shreds and that I was standing in your guts. You and Dad, you never got it." His throat closed up, his voice trailing away. Telling the truth sucked. Big time. Sam dropped his head back into the overstuffed pillow, running a hand over his suddenly queasy stomach. Silence. Sam risked a glance across the room; Dean was stock still, staring at him, his mouth twisted and his brows pulled down.

"What do you want me to say, Sam? I'm sorry. Is that why you hate it, hunting I mean." Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, he took a step towards Sam and then hesitated, rocking back on his heels. "Look, I'm here now. Shit, that's not what I mean. Fuck, Sammy. Let's not do this right now, okay. I can't do this here." Dean waved a hand around, "not in a place like this. Later, please."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He was right; people just didn't like hearing the truth. Honesty came with too high a price, one he could ill afford.

"Okay. Go. Check it out." He rolled over onto his side, his back to Dean

"Sammy?" Dean asked tentatively.

Sam wriggled down into the soft comforter and did not reply; a few seconds later, he heard the door being gently closed.

He dozed fitfully and dreamlessly, his mind slowly churning over the events of the previous couple of days. At one point, he was almost certain that someone had come into the room, and was standing over the bed, looking down at him. Mostly asleep, he could feel a sense warmth and concern wash over him. He fell more deeply into sleep.

He was awoken by a soft click. Sam rolled over to find Dean turning on a bedside lamp. Outside the window it was dark; Sam massaged his eyelids and yawned. Dean pulled off his boots and slung a bag onto the unused bed.

"What time is it, what are you doing?" Sam sat up.

Dean came and sat by his side. "Well, you look better. It's late, you've slept all afternoon and most of the evening and we're staying the night."

"What? You're kidding, staying here. I thought you hated being in places like this." Sam ran a hand through his mussed hair. "I'm confused."

"Nothing new there then. You needed the rest, and Millie insisted and that Lotte may look like a dude, but I gotta tell you, she makes a mean schnitzel. You hungry? I brought a tray up." Dean smiled at him uncertainly.

Sam looked over at the dresser and saw a plate piled high, accompanied by a large glass of milk, Dean's version of a peace offering.

"I could eat," Sam admitted. "And seriously. Millie?"

Dean straightened his shoulders and stuck out his chest. "What can I say? Young or old, no woman is immune to my rugged charm and she's a smart old broad." He leaned forward. "What's that?" he asked pointing to small bundle on the bedside table.

Sam reached over and picked it up. He studied it briefly and held in his open palm for Dean's inspection. It was a small collection of herbs and twigs, some dried, some fresh, all wrapped tightly with a thin red ribbon.

Dean took it from him, gave it a brief sniff, and held it up to the light. "Protection charm?"

Sam nodded. "Looks like it. Myrtle, lavender, some I don't recognize, and rue, not used much anymore. And the red ribbon to ward of the Devil." He was struck by a sudden thought. "Did you come in earlier, when I was asleep and stand here by the bed?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I stuck my head round the door. A couple of times. Why, did you see who it was?"

Sam took the bundle of herbs back from Dean, and placed it back by the bed. "I slept through; I didn't see or hear anybody. I just had a feeling of someone in the room. It wasn't a bad feeling. I thought it was you."

"It should have been." Dean was watching him carefully, "there's obviously more going on here. I would never have left you alone if I had known people were going to be sneaking around like this."

"Dean, it's okay. I'm okay." Sam wasn't sure whom it was he was trying to reassure. He got off the bed and went to retrieve the tray. "So fill me on what Mrs. Hawksworth, oh sorry, Millie told you."

Dean nodded and looked hopefully at the tray now balanced on Sam's knee. "You going to eat all that?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 8**

_**S s S s S**_

The rhythmic huffing of Dean snoring sounded across the room. Sam rolled over for about the fiftieth time and punched his pillow, whereas as before it had comfortably supported his head and cocooned his ears against any outside noise, now it was too bulky and unwieldy. He turned it over, adjusting it under his neck. He lay still for about a minute before squirming restlessly. Sam stretched his eyes wide and shook his head. Crap, it was no good, his little afternoon nap had gone on too long, and he couldn't get to sleep. Dean was dead to the world and to Sam's agitation, for which Sam was glad. Dean could get quite testy when Sam interrupted his shuteye.

It had always been a source of annoyance to Sam, Dean's ability to hit the mattress and be out in seconds, and conversely wake up and get up, all in the space of a couple of minute. No loitering groggily between the sheets, for Dean, or trying to remember which fleapit it was they were staying in this time. Dean had always cited it as another example of his finely honed hunting skills. Sam blamed genetics and an unusually developed primitive cortex.

Sam wriggled around pushing off the heavy comforter and got out of bed. The drapes were open and he trod softly to the window. The moon was only a few days shy of full and the garden and the edge of the forest were quite visible in the weak light. Sam wrapped his arms around himself and leant against the windowsill, his eyes gradually acclimatizing to the monochrome landscape before him.

The first signs of something amiss had begun about two months ago, as the last of the summer leaves had fallen from the trees. Mrs. Hawksworth, Sam couldn't quite bring himself to refer to her as Millie, had told Dean of how everyone who went into the forest complained of feelings of unease and dread, and as the first signs of winter crept into the forest, the withered corpses of birds had begun to appear. No outward sign of injury or disease, apart from the ruined eyes, gouged from their sockets. Mr. Hawksworth had found the body of coyote, no more than a shriveled husk, dried undamaged skin stretched tight over the bones. Agatha even refused to go into the garden and the housekeeper Carmen had left the day an uncharacteristic and localized winter storm had whipped over the house and woods, scattering large lumps of hail and crashing forked lightning across the sky. It had been just before Christmas; Mrs. Hawksworth had given the date as the 21st. The winter solstice. A couple of weeks later she had tracked down Sam's new cell phone number.

Through the glass, Sam could see the dark line of the garden fence and beyond that, the opaque mass of trees, only the top most branches stark against the night sky. Sam rested his forehead against the cool of the window and as he did, so a small spot of light flickered in the far darkness. Sam cupped his hands around his eyes, squishing his nose into the glass. He waited, holding his breath so as not to cloud the cold surface. A yellow splash of light danced across the blackness, dwindling quickly into the night. Sam breathed in and pushed away from the window. Something or someone was out there, whether of human consequence or supernatural was irrelevant Sam thought, either way it was evidence of something that didn't belong out there.

Sam fumbled for his shoes that somehow had managed to migrate to the middle of the floor under his bed; he pulled them on and grabbed his hooded sweatshirt from the top of the dresser, pulling it over his thin t-shirt. It was ten minutes to midnight.

Dean was face down in his pillow; arms hanging over the edge of his bed, a muffled warbling indicating that he had not been disturbed by his brother's furtive movements. Sam slunk from the room, wondering if fireflies were common in winter bound Oregon.

A small table lamp perched on an antique credenza lit the upper hall with an economy level glow. Sam had not ventured from the guest room since his embarrassing turn in the kitchen. Who slept behind those paneled doors in the hallway was a mystery to him. Was everybody still in the house? He had no way of knowing and stealthily sneaking a peek into each room to ascertain the state of its occupant would probably be misinterpreted as being a mite rude. At least when staying in a succession of tatty motels the chance of overstepping the boundaries of social niceties was pretty remote. Sam was out of his depth, what was the etiquette expected from houseguests invited to rid the family estate of an indeterminate life-sucking evil? His father had carelessly neglected that part of his training.

Sam wavered at the top of the stairs, if he and Dean were going to venture into the woods in the morning or at least in daylight, was it really necessary to wake his brother and suggest a midnight stroll. A little voice in his head, sounding a lot like Dean, muttered 'damn straight, you should'. Sam turned back towards his room, as a distant clatter drifted up the stairs. Someone was up and about. Sam decided an innocent trip to the kitchen was in order.

The lights were on and a kettle was beginning to bubble on the industrial sized stove. Rudy, clad in dark maroon paisley pajamas, was fiddling around with small teapot and a cup when Sam entered the room.

Sam coughed discreetly and headed nonchalantly for the 'fridge.

"Hope you don't mind if I help myself to a glass of milk." Sam paused at the 'fridge door.

Rudy blinked at him and then smiled. "Please, help yourself. Left hand cupboard for a glass, but if you like I'm making some herbal tea. Good for what ails you." His voice was soft and his eyes, pale grey like his sister's, crinkled up with gentle humor.

"Ah, sure. Sounds good," Sam lied. "I'm having a bit of trouble sleeping." He stood awkwardly for a moment and then moved to sit at the kitchen table.

The kettle began to whistle and Rudy move across to turn down the heat. "Understandable really, given why you're here, but then I'm sure you are all too aware of why you had to come back." Rudy smiled benignly at the kettle and poured its contents into the teapot.

Sam froze in his seat. He must have misunderstood the old man's words, he was obviously referring to the information that Dean had gathered from the family and relayed on to Sam.

Rudy shuffled over to the table and placed the teapot and two earthen ware mugs in front of Sam.

"It needs to steep for two minutes or so." He sat down across from Sam, clasping his hands together on the table top, his sparse white hair sticking up at all angles. Sam hadn't taken that much notice of him four years before. Rudy and Agatha had only spoken to him when he had questioned them about their encounter with the woodland spirit, they had both been nervous and Sam had believed that it had been at Mrs. Hawksworth insistence that they had done so at all.

He was in the man's home; he had fainted in the old guy's kitchen. Rudy was old enough to be Sam's grandfather for Christ's sake, of course, he would be at ease, however Sam was acutely conscious of the aura of quiet and calm assurance that surrounded the old man in flannel pajamas.

"Do you know what it is?" Sam blurted out. Rudy looked rather startled by the abrupt question and shaking his head he reached for the teapot.

"No, Sam. I don't and if I was younger, well, let's just say that some things are not as easy as they used to be. Here, it's not as bad as it looks." Rudy poured the steaming brew into a cup and handed it to Sam.

Sam peered at the murky liquid, as he raised his cup, his nose twitched. The tea smelled like pond water, hot muddy pond water. He took a small sip; it had an earthy taste with a sharp tang of citrus. He'd had worse. Jessica had been fond of her alternative teas, as he had mockingly called them, a lifetime ago. She bought boxes of the noxious beverages; all way overpriced and had piled them in the corner of their small kitchen cupboard, the colorful packages invariable spilling out whenever anybody tugged on the cupboard door. It was probably the first time he'd thought of the damn things, a tiny, insignificant aspect of another existence. They had gone up in smoke, along with so many of his dreams. He took a gulp of the near scalding liquid and forced his mind back to the task at hand.

Sam knew the answer before he asked the question. "You made this yourself, the tea. I mean not just now. You mixed the ingredients yourself, right?"

Rudy put down his own cup and delicately blotted his lips with his cuff. "I find I get a more potent blend that way. I grow much of what I need in our greenhouse. Carmen loved using fresh herbs in her cooking." He gave a forlorn little sigh and took another sip of tea.

"Was Carmen right, Mr. Hawksworth? Do you believe in the Devil?" Sam asked quietly

Rudy put his cup on the table and met Sam's gaze with a clear, bright eyes and for a moment the years slid away and Sam had a flash of a young man, whose determination and optimism shone forth.

"The Devil is where you find him Sam, whether you're looking or not." Rudy rose to his feet taking his tea with him. "Now I must return to my dear Millicent. She mentioned something about driving into town early tomorrow morning and she threatened to drag me along for the ride. Take care in the woods tomorrow with your brother. He's a bit of a pistol, that one. You'll sleep well now. Goodnight."

Rudy and his overlarge carpet slippers, scuffed unhurriedly across the kitchen floor and left Sam clutching his tea in bemusement and with the feeling that he just been told something of vital importance but he had no idea what it was. He knocked back the remainder of the cooling tea, which now had a distinctly silty aftertaste, flicked out the lights and went back to bed.

He dreamt of airplanes and demons, of chasing mutated and disfigured cannibals through trees and mineshafts. Dean at his side every step of the way. Only every time he turned to look at his brother, it wasn't Dean, it was a young man with spiky dark hair and silver grey eyes that crinkled up at the corners whenever he smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 9**

_**S s S s S**_

Dean was right, as Sam discovered the next morning when the housekeeper presented him with an enormous plate of bacon and eggs. Lotte did look like a dude. She was skinny, all angles and elbows, with cropped bleached hair, hooded brown eyes, and a thin line of dark fine hair that arched gracefully over her top lip.

"Thanks, Lotte." Dean waggled his eyebrows, grinned rakishly, and popped a strip of extra crispy bacon into his mouth.

"Bitte," Lotte barked brusquely and marched back across the kitchen, leaving the brothers alone at the table.

Sam poked disconsolately at his runny eggs trying to drum up some enthusiasm for their morning's undertaking. Dean reached across the table and nabbed a piece of his toast.

"So you peg ol' Rudy as charm boy. Damn, it's always the quiet ones." Dean took a large bite of toast. "And if that is the case, why's he being so sneaky about it. His wife calls us because they believe there's something freaky out there, again," he waved a crust in the general direction of the window. "If he wants to toss a few herbs here and there, smudge the place, why be so shy about it? It's not like we're gonna laugh at him. Well, not that much."

"Gee, Dean. I think you just answered your own question." Sam replied, chasing an elusive piece of egg around his plate with his fork. "Anyway, I get the feeling there's more to it than that." Got it, Sam speared the egg and popped it into his mouth.

"More what, where?" Dean reached for another piece of toast and Sam whacked his hand with his fork.

"God man, you're a bottomless pit. I mean that I don't think the charm thing or whatever else Rudy might be up to, is just because of what's been happening recently. There's something about him, I don't know." Sam shook his head and leant back in his chair, regarding his brother pensively. It was there, just beyond his reach, a word on the tip of his tongue, a few tauntingly familiar notes of a song he couldn't quite place. Sam sighed. "Come on. Let's get on with this. Or do you want to spend another night in the guest room from hell?"

Dean shuddered and pushed away from the table. "Lead on, bro, and," as Sam rounded the table Dean grabbed his arm, "if you start to feel weird, or you know, weirder than usual, tell me."

Sam stiffened, resisting the urge to yank his arm from Dean's loose grip. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean squeezed his arm, "Take it easy buddy. Just saying I'm not in the mood to haul your ass back through the backyard jungle if you decided to flake out on me again."

"Oh," Sam winced apologetically. "Guess I'm a little jumpy." He had no idea what they might find out in the woods but if events so far were any indication, whatever it was would be one fucked-up unholy mess. Oh well, Sam thought glumly, forewarned is forearmed.

_S s S s S_

The weathered wooden gate gave a suitably eerie groan as Dean pulled it open; Sam followed him from the carefully managed garden into the chaotic tangle of weeds and grass. He pushed the gate shut behind him and looked back at the house, the lights were on in the kitchen, and he could see Lotte scrubbing fiercely at the countertop. His eyes were drawn up to the big picture window of their room. The glass reflected the dancing movement of the trees behind him, the room beyond hidden in shadow. Something glinted, catching the rays of the weak winter sunshine. A fleeting pinprick of pain burned behind his eyes. Sam turned quickly, scanning the trees. It wasn't a reflection, he realized, it came from behind the glass.

"This is getting old, real fast," Sam muttered, mostly to himself.

"What are you bitchin' about this time?" Dean's gun rested lightly in both hands and he was peering along the barrel. "I swear this freaking thing needs sighting again. You haven't had those big mitts of yours on it, have you? "

"No. You going to start taking potshots at trees, now? Trust me, it doesn't work. And in case you're interested I think someone was watching us from our room." Sam snapped, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Dean dropped his hands and glared at the house and then at Sam. "Uh huh. Now why would you think that Sammy? I saw all three of 'em pile into the car this morning and that sure looks like Lotte in the kitchen." Dean pursed his lips and studied Sam for a few seconds.

"You don't believe me?" Sam wanted to be angry but Dean's gaze seemed to cut right through him and he suddenly felt uncomfortably exposed.

"Yeah, Sam. I do. It is kind of odd though, Sammy. You and your reappearing butt wounds. The fainting. Strange men leaving you charms, seeing lights at night, and now, apparently having the ability to know when somebody is up in that room. Although I can't see anything from here." Dean tucked his gun away and gave Sam a toothy smile. "After all, we've been over this already; I'd hate to think there's something you're not telling me."

Sam felt a hot prickle of emotion rush up his spine. It was the same old mixture of nerves, defiance, and guilt that always seemed to overcome him whenever he found himself butting heads with either his father, or more recently his brother.

"You know as much as I do, okay? I don't know why those scratches reopened. I sure as hell don't know why I fainted. This place gives me the creeps, I feel like someone's watching me and yeah, I wish we hadn't come here. It's all fucking wrong. If you hadn't noticed, I'm getting tired of being knocked sideways by all this," Sam threw his hands in the air, his voice getting steadily louder, "this, shit."

"Jesus. You're such a drama queen." Dean was infuriatingly calm. Ever since they had arrived, he had been playing the role of the responsible and social adept older brother, the shock and anger at his discovery of Sam's college hunting days turning to an air of smug superiority. Sam wanted to scream. At Dean, at the Hawksworths and at anything that reminded him of the sting of his recent failures. He twisted away from his brother, taking long strides into the thigh high brush that surrounded the first line of trees. He stopped a few feet from the forest edge. The murky spaces between the ridged trunks seemed to swallow the early morning sun, and the slight breeze tickled the back of his neck, as if trying to nudge him further forward.

Dean pushed past him. "There's the trail Millie mentioned. It goes for about three clicks before it peters out. We'll stick to it and see if we can get a bead on this thing. Whatever it is."

It was the same trail Sam had followed four years ago, he swung round. There it was, about twenty feet to his left, a tall silver sapling marking the spot where he had dispatched the tree sprite. There were still a few leaves and catkins hanging to the upper branches. Sam was filled with the impulsive need to touch the young tree. Pushing through the brush, Sam ran his hand down the narrow trunk; the papery feel of the bark smooth and warm against his palm. Sudden images darted through him mind. The howling demise of the sprite, Rudy and his maroon pajamas, the bright red front door of the house. The vivid punch of memory made him stagger back slightly.

"Call me picky, but I'm going with weird on this one, Sam. Now you've done with tree hugging, what's next. Save the whales?" Dean was watching him, arms crossed, head tilted and face expressionless.

Sam rubbed at his forehead, wanting to damp down the tingle of fear the crawled over his skin. The universe or his little corner of it was attempting to make some obscure point and he was obviously missing it. He decided to ignore his brother and headed back the trailhead.

"That's the one, the red alder that apparently appeared overnight. I was curious, so sue me." Sam waited as Dean took the lead.

_S s S s S_

His imagination had been on overtime for the last day or so and Sam was happy to attribute the way the trees swayed and their limbs curved toward them to it. Each step was an effort, his every nerve, or so it seemed, squawking in alarm. Sam valiantly resisted turning tail and running as far and as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Dean lifted his head, eyes tracking the bowed branches arcing overhead, Sam was sure that his brother shivered and he definitely pulled his coat collar higher. Firs and cedars formed deep green towers, foliage rustling whisper soft, other trees were bare, their branches rattling together, the noise carried along by the small droplets of mist that had started to appear, lingering a few feet above the ground.

"I hate to say it Sam, but you're right. This place is creepy." Dean patted his pockets. "Crap. I should've brought the EMF, I can almost ..." Dean paused, mid-step, and cocked his head.

"What? What is it?" Sam inched a little close to his brother, and then he heard it too, a distant cry, bouncing off the tree trunks making it hard to pinpoint from which direction it came. Another cry, it started low, rose to a full-throated scream, and then bubbled away, its echo fading into the cool winter air. They stared at each other.

"Human?" Dean reached for his gun.

"Yeah, sounded like it." Sam nodded, his muscles tensing.

"This way." Dean pointed with his gun and took off, dodging between the trees. Sam followed, the mulchy forest floor muffling their combined footfalls. They jogged steadily for several minutes, weaving in and out, ducking under low hanging branches. The forest was silent, Sam kept his eyes firmly fixed on his brother's back, determined that they not become separated. The trees were taller that those near the trail, huge ancient giants that loomed over them, thick clumps of ferns sprouting between knotted roots. To Sam it was as if the massive trunks were squeezing the very air from forest, his breath catching painfully in his chest, and then abruptly the trees fell away. They found themselves on the edge of a large round clearing.

Dean slowed to a walking pace and as Sam caught up to him, a loud harsh 'caw' sounded across the open space in front of them and three large crows flew into the air, black glossy wings beating fast. They circled above the centre of the clearing before flapping lazily away over the treetops.

Dean trod carefully toward the spot where the birds had taken flight, his gun at the ready. Sam watched from beneath the sparse canopy of branches stretching into the empty glade. There was nothing comforting about the shelter of the trees but Sam couldn't make himself step into the clearing. Dean stopped, his posture stiffened and he dropped to one knee.

"Sam." He called over his shoulder, his voice rough. Reluctantly Sam walked over to him. Lying spread eagled on its back, in a shallow indentation of the earth, was all that was left of Alan Blaine. It was the suit. Sam immediately recognized the expensive well-tailored fabric that now draped loosely over the shrunken and desiccated remains. Yellow dried skin, like ancient stained parchment stretched tautly over the skull, brittle eyelids curled over dark empty sockets and clawed fingertips poked from the jacket sleeves.

Dean was on his feet tense and alert, swinging around. "Weapon?"

Sam wrenched his gaze from the corpse, moving to cover his brother's back. "No." How fucking stupid could you get? He couldn't remember why he hadn't thought to bring a gun or any type of weapon, even Dean had left his precious EMF meter in the car.

"Godammit, Sam." Dean growled, continuing to turn slowly, Sam turned with him, bumping shoulders as they watched for any unexpected movement. The forest was deathly still.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 10**

_AN: If anyone out there is still interested, this story is just about finished. Yay. I started in '06, 'tis now '08. I am shamed. __Will be posting every few days, all things be equal. Watched 'Mystery Spot' last night and… and, dangnabbit, Sam made a reference to a concept central to this story, that Sam makes reference to, in this story. Clear? Sigh. I was somewhat deflated, I wrote the chapter in question a couple of weeks back. Oh well, it prompted me to get on and post this sucker. Cheers!_

_**S s S s S**_

"We need to get out of here, like now." Sam whispered as he leaned into the solid reassurance of his brother's body. As he spoke a cold breeze sprang up, a frigid caress brushing across his face and almost immediately the forest around them was shifting gently. The treetops waved in the wind, rising up like the fur across the back of stalking cat, twitching in anticipation.

They stopped turning and stood back to back, eyes following the perimeter of the clearing. Sam took a deep shuddering breath, choking in alarm as it caught low in his chest and at the same instant, the world around him froze. His eyes refused to blink, for an exaggerated moment he could not feel or hear, only his sight remained to remind him that he was standing, disconnected, on the cold ground. Desperation clawing at him, he tried to work the muscles of his throat and then suddenly he was free, the sudden rush of returning sensation was almost painful. He flinched, gulping back a small cry of distress.

"Scared Sammy? Running out on the job so soon?" Dean voice was soft, pushed past gritted teeth. It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, but Sam really didn't want to give Dean the impression he wanted to stay where they were. He hesitated, glancing down at Blaine's corpse, there was no way they were going to be hauling _that_ out of the forest. Experience dictated they should stay, circle the area looking for any clues that might explain the unnatural demise of the man at their feet. Dean knew this, Sam knew this, yet everything within him screamed for him to move, run, put as much distance as he could between him and the woods, the house and, his heart pounded with the shock of sudden realization, the Hawksworths. There was a moments silence and Sam could almost feel the uncertainty ripple through Dean's body as he pressed back into Sam, arms still outstretched, gun steady, giving Sam tacit permission to decide their next move.

"Call it what you like, we're empty handed, and whatever did that to Blaine can't be far and I'd bet your gun, that bullets probably won't help us. Got any other tricks up your sleeve?" Still keeping his voice low, Sam kept his eyes on the trees surrounding the clearing; his eyes beginning to ache from trying to keep track of the flickering movements of increasingly wind jostled leaves and branches.

"Good point. I don't see anything wrong with a strategic retreat, sissy boy. And we should report the untimely passing of our freeze-dried lawyer here." Dean said brightly.

"Dude!" Sam's eyes flitted over the bunched fabric on the ground, avoiding the grim remains contained within, black shell buttons reflecting tiny dots of the overcast sky, a row of small beady eyes winking back at him.

"The guy was a prick." Dean shrugged. "Being dead doesn't change that." He pulled away abruptly and Sam staggered slightly before regaining his balance. "Let's go."

Tugging at Sam's sleeve, he started across the clearing. Sam watched him for a few seconds, the dark navy of Dean's jacket and the pale blue of his jeans, a bold splash of color against the backdrop of the drab browns of the trees and dirty stalks of dying sedge grasses sprouting in untidy clumps through the tattered layers of faded leaves that covered the clearing. He glanced down at himself, his black jeans, and brown jacket reflecting the muted landscape and overcast skies. How easy would it be to fall into the damp ground, surrender himself to the bleak embrace of the landscape? Just to let go. Sam swayed slightly, the tension in his body tumbling downwards, eyes falling shut, his feet sinking into the softness beneath.

"Hey! You coming? Sam. Sammy." Dean's voice was sharp and suddenly there were strong fingers digging into his arm, shaking him. "Snap out of it."

Sam eyes flew open and he blinked at Dean. "Shit, Dean. This place, I don't know. Kind of losing it there for a bit."

Dean glared at him. "Keep it together man, we've got to get back, and I've told you already I'm not hauling your lanky ass back by myself," he frowned and leaned forward. "Is there something wrong? Aside from, you know, random dead guys. How's your butt?"

"My butt?" Sam was startled by the abrupt change of subject, his hand sliding down to rub his backside. "Oh yeah. It's not playing up if that's what you mean." Sam stopped surprised. "I wonder if that means anything."

Dean sighed, and glanced around the clearing again. "You know, I can't say for sure, but I've never heard of a tree spirit sucking the life right out of someone. I wonder if Dad would know …" he trailed off, staring into middle distance.

"Yeah, good luck with that." Sam snapped and pushed past him. They began to run, into the trees, retracing their steps back to the trail. It seemed darker under the cover of the trees than before and the wind was gaining strength with each step they took, a noisy rush of cold air battering over and through the exposed branches of the looming trees.

Sam glanced behind him, giving into the paranoia of that itchy spot between his shoulder blades. The forest was alive with dancing shadows and a thousand tiny movements that were swallowed by the heavy mist rising from the damp ground, but nothing Sam could define in any concrete terms followed their steady progress. Not looking where he was going Sam ran into something solid and unmoving, he stumbled back. Dean had stopped and was frowning at a large dead cypress a few feet in front of them.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Sam found himself raising his voice to be heard above the persistent cacophony around them.

Dean ran a hand over his chin, looked unhappily at Sam and gestured at the brown foliage of the cypress. "I swear we passed that thing once already and I'm damn sure we should have hit the trail by now. It wasn't that far."

He swung around; Sam could see his eyes flicking back and forth, looking for anything that would indicate that they were headed toward the trail.

Sam tilted his head back, peering up past the long columns of tree trunks to the patches of darkening sky. The low cloud cover pressed down upon the swaying tops of the trees, a featureless ceiling of heavy grey enveloping the uppermost branches of the trees.

"This way." Dean moved more cautiously, gun pointing to the ground. Sam followed closely, a ball of nervous tension slowly unraveling in his gut, a myriad of questions nagging persistently in the back of his head.

Why Blaine? Why would he even be out here? What was it that he could feel creeping through the forest, sidling between the trees just out of sight? Sam was beginning to suspect he might be something of a coward. He had been afraid before, too many times. Afraid of the dark, afraid of what it hid, but this nagging sense of familiarity was playing havoc with his judgment.

He should have known, should have trusted his instincts, and trusted Dean with his instincts. Hindsight's a bitch and foresight its equally malicious sibling, he reflected bitterly. He had the usual excuses, the little white lies he had always told himself. That being scared shitless on a regular basis had the unfortunate side effect of making it hard to distinguish between the normal healthy adrenaline fuelled desire to be somewhere else when some ugly monster kicked in the door and the elusive sensation of knowing that something indefinably wrong was skulking in wait just around the next corner.

Dean had stopped again and was staring straight-ahead, head cocked, as if waiting for something. He brought a finger to his lips, glancing at Sam, they both stood motionless and Sam tried to pinpoint any other sound other than the whining call of the wind. After a minute or so, Dean shook his head.

"I thought I heard someone," he said quietly, not meeting Sam's eyes. An unpleasant chill crawled across Sam's skin.

"Someone? Are you sure, did you hear a voice. What?" Sam twisted around and around, almost tripping over his own feet scanning the trees, there was no one to be seen.

"No, I'm not sure. He can't … It can't be what I thought …" Dean stopped open-mouthed, his eyes widening as he stared at something past Sam's shoulder.

"Son of a Bitch," he spat and took off, pushing past Sam and running. Sam spun round barely in time to see Dean dodge behind the enormous trunk of a tree some twenty feet away and disappear from view.

"Dean, stop." Sam screamed instinctively, the sudden clarity of understanding hitting him like a hard punch to the stomach. He sprinted around the tree and for a second he thought he could see a figure darting between the distant trees, but it was too dark and what may have been the erratic movements of his brother merged into the pallid cloak of the mist.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 11**

**S s S s S **

Trembling, Sam slumped against the wide trunk of the tree. This is what it had been waiting for. Concealed in the hidden hollows of the forest, dogging their every step, circling slowly until the moment when it could pull them apart. It was so blindingly obvious. He tried again, crying out his brother's name, but the moisture-laden air muffled the sound. Sam hesitated for a few seconds, he didn't have much choice, he had to keep moving. He had to find Dean, whatever it was that his brother had seen or at least thought he'd seen was not going to be leading him back to trail, back to the house. Sam thought of Blaine, drained of life, an empty dry husk unrecognizable from the vital and arrogant man he had met the day before.

He started to run again, heading in the direction Dean had gone. The wind was picking up even more now, brittle branches whipping around his head, occasionally lashing across his face, the space above him filled with the frenetic movement as the large boughs clashed together. A loud cracking sounded and Sam threw himself against the cover of nearest tree trunk as a heavy bough crashed to earth a few feet in front of him. Fat globs of icy rain were starting to fall sporadically; Sam hunched down, and carried on. The trees were beginning to thin, he had a flash of recognition, and then there it was, the trail. Sam stood in the middle of the worn path, the rain heavier now, cold stings of water hitting his face, trickling down his neck. He had come too far; it was only a few hundred yards to the old gate.

"Dean. Dean. Come on," he yelled back down the trail. He wasn't expecting a reply. The muscles in his legs flexed unconsciously, as if trying to lead him back toward the house.

Maybe Rudy knew more than he was telling; he could go back to the house and find out, demand answers, and if they're not there, not back yet, if it was Rudy. What then? Sam cursed under his breath, the gut churning push and pull of indecision washing through him. He closed his eyes. Think Sam, think, that's what he was supposed to be good at, not that it had brought him any further in life than anything else he'd ever done.

Running in circles, chasing his tail, always ending up back where he started. Unbidden a succession of images flashed behind his eyes. Wildly spinning leaves, Jessica, cold eyes, and pale skin. Sweet, wonderful Jessica. Dead because she had trusted Sam and Sam had repaid that trust with little more than a handful of careless lies and casual evasion, all because he'd stopped trusting in anyone years before he met her. Sam opened his eyes, turning his face into the rain. He wasn't looking for absolution, he wasn't sure he knew how, but somewhere along the line he was going to have to stop pretending. He was who he was, and trying to be anything else was in all likelihood going to get somebody else killed. Somebody he loved.

"Not this time," he breathed. "Don't you screw it up this time."

As the rain filled his eyes, blurring his vision, a dark shape passed overhead and a loud cry rang in his ears. Sam blinked, wiping the water from his face. A large crow landed in a tree a few feet above him, with a shimmy of its wings it shook off the rain, cocked its head, and fixed Sam with a bright unblinking stare. Sam stared back, along with the birds in the clearing it was the only sign of life he had seen in the forest. The crow peered down turning its head from side to side and uttering a soft cry, its gaze never leaving Sam.

"Uh, hi." Sam offered and took a hesitant step forward; the crow fluttered its wings, the iridescent black feathers gleaming against the falling rain, but did not move from its perch. Sam thought of the three birds that he and Dean had disturbed by Blaine's corpse.

Sam watched the bird carefully, almost expecting it to disappear right before his eyes. Crows had a mixed reputation, to some omens of death and despair: to others they were powerful totems, revered as sentinels and messengers of the sacred and spiritual. Sam blinked, was his life so bizarre that even a common woodland bird was worthy of his suspicion? The crow blinked back at Sam, raised its tail, and deposited a large white dollop at the base of the tree. Stretching its wings it gave a small jump and flew across to the next tree, turning again to face Sam. It eyed him and clacked its beak together with, and Sam cursed his overactive imagination, a distinct air of impatience.

"You have got to be kidding, right? If you're luring me to a grisly death, I'm totally going to be pissed, okay?" Sam warned the bird, uncomfortably thankful that Dean wasn't there to witness his little brother talking to the local wildlife. The crow bobbed its head and took off; gliding slowly below branches, Sam followed reluctantly wondering if he should have brought a pocketful of breadcrumbs.

With the occasional flap of its long wings, the crow effortlessly navigated a twisting path between the trees, if Sam fell behind it would rise upward, turning in tight circle and uttering a single loud squawk. Sam paused to catch his breath as the dead cypress materialized before him, his sense of direction gone haywire; he couldn't even begin to guess the direction of the house or any point of the compass. The crow dipped in and out of the mist and the trees loomed large again. Beginning to feel a little breathless, Sam realized he was again nearing the clearing. The sleek black bird in front of him suddenly banked sharply and with a final cry vanished back into the trees.

Sam stared after it in dismay. Perhaps he'd finally lost it, plunged right into the deep end, no big surprise really. Chasing after a big honking bird, for God's sake and expecting, what? To be led right to his brother sitting patiently on a mossy tuffet, awaiting rescue. He snorted at the thought of Dean waiting patiently for anything.

"Dean. Dean. Hey dude, it's me." He continued to call out, as he made his way carefully to the light of the clearing.

The rain was tapering off and the wind had dropped again. Sam stepped back into the clearing, some distance from where he and Dean had originally stood, it was empty, Blaine's remains hidden from view. He would be hard pressed to pinpoint their exact location.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a brief flurry of movement. Further, into the clearing, a few leaves skipped above the ground. Sam frowned, the air around him still quiet. As he watched more leaves where swept into the air, nearby dead grasses swayed silently. The ground underfoot was sodden, leaf litter compressed into a thin slippery layer and yet more leaves rose into the air, spiraling gradually higher and higher into the air. Sam watched more worried over his lack of surprise than any possible danger. The twister began to grow outwards, spinning faster and faster; Sam could feel the wind on his face now, pushing his hair from his forehead. Individual leaves were now indistinguishable from the whirling mass of brown. The sight sparked a painful shock of memory.

Sam started. Fuck. He took a deep breath and started toward the twister. The wind cut through his clothes, slashing his skin with a cold keen edge, his ears popped under the pressure and wet leaves slapped into his face. He threw up his arms and plunged ahead, the ferocity of the wind making it harder to move forward, the whirlwind on all sides forcing him to a standstill. Sam fell to his knees, onto his stomach, his clothes immediately saturated. He inched forward; elbows digging into the ground and his eyes screwed shut, the wind shrieked in his ears and then dropped away. Sam opened his eyes, eyes drawn upward, above his head rose a wildly spinning column, widening to the dull sky, tilting this way and that, spitting rotting leaves high into the air. Sam lay with his head in the eye of the twister and his body still buffeted by the small storm. Sam looked down, about an arms length in front of him was a boot. Dean's boot. Sam dragged himself into the dubious safety of the quiet center, pulling himself to his knees. Dean lay on his back, limbs outstretched and eyes open. There were no visible signs of injury.

God, no. Don't you dare, Sam breathed a silent prayer and reached for his brother. He pressed a shaking hand over Dean's heart, the fabric pulling across his chest held no body heat. Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders, shaking him roughly. How long had he been running? No way had they been apart long enough for Dean to end up like this. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

"Dean. It's me. Wake up. Come on, I promise I won't keep...Crap." Sam pulled on Dean's jacket, Dean's head lolled back, baring his neck to the sky, his eyes unblinking with pinpoint pupils. Sam placed both hands on his brother's face, the skin beneath his fingers tips was ashen and dry to the touch, and dug his fingers into the slack muscles. There was no response, Sam scrambled to find a pulse, but his brother was unmoving, skin icy, eyes staring sightlessly ahead, Sam was sure he could feel his brother's essence dwindling away, sucked into the winds that whipped around them.

"Please, Dean. Stop it. Just stop it now." Sam shook the body before him, his fear and frustration overwhelming him, he tried to pull Dean up, managing to get them both to their knees before Dean listed away from him, his dead weight too much for Sam's weakening grasp. He fell onto to his side, crumpling onto the wet ground.

Sam could do nothing to stop the sob the bubbled up from his chest, filling the confines of his throat. He gasped for air, all his muscles simultaneously surrendering to the insidious lethargy that had been creeping over him. He pitched forward, landing along side his brother; he turned his head and buried his face in the back of Dean's jacket, pressing into the cold and lifeless body beneath him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 12**

**S s S s S **

This was his nightmare. He pushed his forehead into Dean's back. He had seen the clearing, seen his brother just as he was now and he had pushed it aside, and chalked it up as some kind of stupid metaphor with which his subconscious had seen fit to torture him. Why did it have to be so goddamn literal? He had also seen Jessica in these woods, and he knew that was never going to happen. Jessica was gone, burnt up by a fire that had haunted his sleep for weeks beforehand. Sam pulled away from his brother.

Dean was still here, for the moment, still in one piece. He would stop this.

Get it together Winchester.

Dean would mock him mercilessly if he caught Sam sniffling into his jacket.

Don't be such a freaking pansy.

Sam got back onto his knees and fighting against his leaden limbs, grabbed Dean and rolled him over on to his back again. As he did so, he noticed a splash of color on Dean's right hand, a glistening spot of red. It was a small cut, a scratch across the knuckles. Sam watched as a small droplet of blood rolled across the back of Dean's hand, slowly followed by another that welled up and trickled along the same path. Corpses don't bleed.

Sam wound his arms around his brother and hoisted him up, shuffling backwards on his knees he dragged his brother into the maelstrom at his back, praying that the thing hadn't grown any bigger. He kept his eyes tightly shut, if he couldn't see it, it couldn't hurt him. Logic, he decided, was pretty thin on the ground in these parts.

The wind screeched and hissed, pummeling him from all sides, it was taking longer than before. He stopped, renewing his grip around Dean's inert form and wriggled across the wet ground. It took him a while to realize that the wind was fading away. When he opened his eyes, the air was filled with leaves, fluttering to the ground, spinning lazily down and settling all around him. It was quiet and the sky was brightening, whatever it was, it had stopped. Sam let loose a shuddering sigh of relief and dropped his head onto the convenient support of Dean's shoulder. Dean twitched.

"Dean. Oh God. Thank you, thank you, thank you," Sam chanted, lowering Dean to the ground and peering hopefully into his face. At some point Dean's eyes had fallen shut and although weak and sporadic, Sam could feel the subtle beat of a pulse beneath his fingertips. He squatted back on his heels, catching his breath. How in the hell was he going to get Dean back to the house? He was considering his limited options when a muscle twitched in his back and he knew that someone was watching him. Without moving, he raised his eyes to the edge of the clearing. Near enough for Sam to see his features clearly, stood Rudy, clad in a bright yellow slicker and rubber boots, his eyes wide with apparent shock. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Sam's emotions teetering between relief and the slow twist of suspicion. The old man was supposed to be miles away.

"Oh, my goodness." Rudy hurried over, nimbly sidestepping the soggy spots of ground and kneeling down beside Dean. He reached out a hand to Dean's neck, kindly concern written across his face. Sam leaned over his brother, grasping Rudy's wrist in a tight grip before he could make contact.

"I don't want to seem ungrateful, Mr. Hawksworth, but please don't touch my brother." Sam said apologetically. Rudy stared down at his hand and then back at Sam, and nodded gently.

"It's quite alright Samuel. I understand. Really, I do, but I can promise most wholeheartedly that I only want to help. Whatever has happened, I had no part in it. Please." Rudy met Sam's gaze, his clear grey eyes mirroring the gunmetal clouds above. Sam dropped his hand, Rudy was sincere, he knew that, but he had been hanging around Dean long enough to recognize misdirection when he heard it. On the other hand, maybe he was just getting better at spotting liars.

"So you didn't see it, then. The leaves, the twister?" Sam wondered how long Rudy had been standing there. Rudy stood up, shaking his head. "No. No. I just got here. We, uh, cut our trip short, returning sooner than expected. When Lotte informed me that you were still out here. Well, I was worried. Rightly so, I see. We should get your brother back to the house."

Sam frowned. "Still out here? It's only been a couple of hours." He glanced down at his watch, it had stopped at a few minutes before ten o'clock, they had left the house at about nine. He tapped it. "What is the time?' He looked up at Rudy, who looked back at him in surprise.

"It's almost two. Millicent was expecting you for lunch. She rather insisted I came to look for you."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, frowning in disbelief. Almost four hours. No way had they been out here that long. He stared down at the pale figure of his brother, how long had Dean been out there, exposed to the elements? Too long. Sam shook himself; he would figure it out later.

"I'm going to need your help, Mr. Hawksworth. Dean's not exactly a lightweight."

Rudy gave him a small, crooked smile. "There's life in this old dog, yet, young man."

Sam stood, pulled an arm over his shoulder and grabbing Dean tightly around his waist hauled him upright. Rudy wound Dean's other arm over his shoulder. He was considerably shorter than Sam, who was forced to hunch over and with Dean hanging between them like a lopsided rag doll, they stumbled towards the trees. Rudy had to be close to seventy, but his voluminous yellow coat hid a wiry frame. Sam was impressed despite his misgivings about Rudy's convenient appearance in the wood.

Sam let Rudy guide them. The old man led them to a narrow but distinct trail between the trees. Sam wondered how he and Dean had managed to miss it. That they had was no real surprise.

"You must know your way around here, Mr. Hawksworth, but how did you know to come to the clearing. I mean how did you know where to find us?" Sam asked his voice strained with the task of supporting his brother's body.

"I," Rudy huffed, "have gone over these," he took a large breath "trails many times. And don't forget the clearing is where I first encountered the apparition that you," Rudy renewed his grip on the arm over his shoulders, "dealt with last time. I thought it would be prudent to check there." His face was red from the exertion and Sam decided it was probably best to leave cross-examinations and small talk until later.

"Oh, right. Makes sense," he said lamely and they slogged on in labored silence, Dean's boots dragging behind them.

By the time, they reached the back gate Rudy was starting to stagger under the uncooperative weight of his burden and Sam was puffing hard. A familiar shriek heralded their arrival.

"Rudy my dear, what's wrong. Is Mr. Winchester all right? Oh dear Lord." Mrs. Hawksworth, also clad in a yellow raincoat, rushed to the gate.

"Calm down, Millie," Rudy paused for breath, "he's not injured that we can see, but he's been out for a long time. We should call Dr Browne." Rudy turned to Sam. "Unless you think we should take him to the hospital."

Sam hesitated, hospitals brought with them their own set of unique problems, but then it looked like Dean was in serious trouble. Blaine was dead and Dean had come way too close for comfort. Shit, Sam winced, painfully aware that the elderly couple anxiously awaiting his answer had no idea that their nephew was dead.

He rolled his shoulders, tugging at Dean's arm. The late Mr. Blaine could wait, his brother came first.

"Let's get him inside and yes, please call the doctor, Mrs. Hawksworth. I don't know exactly what happened, if it looks bad, I'll make the decision then." Sam hedged and started forward, trying not to think about how quickly the situation might deteriorate once he told them about Blaine.

They were struggling up the stairs, Mrs. Hawksworth with a supportive hand on her husband's back, when a sharp pain flared across Sam's temples, he stopped for a moment, and looking up he saw Agatha standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at them.

"Oh Agatha, my dear, there you are. How's your migraine? If you're feeling better perhaps you could get Dr Browne on the phone for me." Mrs. Hawksworth voice was uncomfortably loud. Sam glanced across at Rudy, who was staring at his sister; with a subtle incline of his head, he motioned her downstairs. Her grey eyes flickered across his face, her only acknowledgement to him.

"Of course, Millie. I do hope young Mr. Winchester is not grievously injured, I knew those woods were too dangerous," she replied quietly as she started down the stairs. Sam could feel the weight of her gaze as she passed him on the stairs. It made his skin crawl. Her sharp, bright eyes in vivid contrast to her aging features and softly spoken demeanor. He pulled Dean tighter against him.

S s S s S

Sam dropped Dean onto the pink comforter, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a soft groan as his muscles protested in relief. He checked for a pulse, it was definitely stronger now, but Dean's skin was sallow and his eyes dark and sunken. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

The Hawksworths had left him alone with Dean and had gone downstairs, to await the arrival of the doctor.

Sam pulled off Dean's boots and with gently efficiency extracted Dean from his jacket and jeans. His brother's skin was dry, and to Sam's careful touch, almost brittle. He could not help but think of the dried taut skin covering all that was left of Alan Blaine. Sucked dry, his life pulled into the earth around him. Damn, Sam sighed glumly, was such a thing possible?

Sam tucked the covers up around Dean's chin. He backed up a few step and sank down onto his own bed, surrendering to exhaustion. The ribbon wrapped charm still sat by the bedside lamp; he scooped it up angrily, turning it over in his hand. For a protection charm, it had done a lousy job; he tossed it back onto the nightstand. He hung his head, hating how ineffectual he felt; carelessly he ran a nail over the dried dirt on his jeans, brushing the small flakes to the floor. He tried not to think about what would happen if Dean never awoke. He was scratching so intently at a particularly stubborn splotch that he almost didn't hear the ragged whisper.

"Sammy."


	13. Chapter 13

_**Lies I Never Told**_

_**Chapter 13**_

_**S s S s S **_

Dr. Browne pursed his lips in bemusement, regarding everyone in the room with amused suspicion.

"I obviously can't say exactly what's wrong; blood tests would be more helpful. His blood pressure, respiration and heart rate, while not normal for someone his age, are within acceptable limits. He seems dehydrated, possibly in shock, and unless you can furnish me with more information than 'he passed out hiking in the forest', there's not a lot more I can do. All I can recommend is the doctor's ever-popular panacea. Fluids, lots of 'em and rest." He closed his bag with a loud snap. "Now Millicent, I believe you lured me here with pleas for help and promises of fine scotch."

He marched past Sam, clapping him on the shoulder as he went by.

"Try to keep out of trouble now," and he and Mrs. Hawksworth left the room.

Dean was sitting propped up by several fat pillows. His eyes were barely open and Sam could see he was struggling to remain awake. Sam sat next to him and waved a large glass of water at him. Hard knocks were an inevitable side effect of the hunt and Sam had lost count of the number of potential panic attacks he had wrestled into submission when faced with his bruised and bloodied family. If there was one thing Dean hated, it was being coddled. Sam gripped the glass and did his best to appear indifferent to his brother's condition.

"You heard the man." He pressed the glass to Dean's lips. Dean grimaced and took a long sip.

"Lotte's getting busy with some soup." Sam peered at his brother, Dean had said very little, only acknowledging Sam and barely responding the doctor's questions. Sam tipped the glass again.

"You're going to be fine. You had me worried, okay, terrified if you must know. Do you want anything, are you comfortable? I know we've got to talk, but whenever you're ready. I guess there's a few things we need to figure out. I have some ideas I want to check out on the 'net, although none of this makes a lot of sense."

Dean shut his eyes.

"Sam," he whispered

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam asked anxiously leaning forward.

"Shut up."

Sam bit his lip and turned away, hiding his relief and complete lack of indifference.

"Oh God, you're going to blub like a little girl, aren't you?" Dean groaned. "Look, I don't remember much, everything's scrambled. So I'm going to lie here quietly and you can fill me in on why I feel like shit."

Dean hadn't opened his eyes. Sam told him everything, almost everything, skipping the small detail of improbably helpful crows. He stood and paced the room, watching the swaying forest from the bedroom window, trying to stick to the facts and not include his emotional reactions to the day's events. It wasn't easy. Dean remained silent throughout and Sam wasn't even sure if he was awake, he finished his tale, leaning into the windowsill, crossing his arms tightly against his chest. He really didn't like this room.

"It was Dad." Sam swung round at his brother's words. Dean was watching him from under heavy lidded eyes.

"What was?" Sam was nonplussed.

"When I took off, I saw him, between the trees. Heard him too, calling for me. I know it was stupid but I just reacted. I'm sorry, I should've known better. Rookie mistake." Dean swallowed and glanced at the water by the bed. Sam reached for the glass, waiting until Dean had finished drinking before asking the question that had been on his mind for hours now.

"What happened after that? Do you remember being back in the clearing."

Dean shook his head.

"That's it. That's all. I think …" he paused and frowned "I think once I fell for the bait, that was it." He pulled in a weary breath. "It was the perfect distraction, I guess. I keep thinking I remember, but it's just not there." He looked up at Sam. "What do you think, maybe, we're dealing with some kind of demon again. Something that reads minds, or you know?"

Sam thought back to the malevolent words of the demon, spat from the helpless host of the co-pilot they had fought on the plane. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew whatever was out there was no demon. It felt different. He shook his head.

"Demon? No, I don't think so." Sam was reluctant to explain further and in an effort to distract himself and Dean he found himself mumbling.

"I thought you were dead." He wanted to say more but he was having a great deal of difficulty getting over that one unfortunate fact, he studied the dark maroon carpet at his feet, eyes tracking the intricate weave of wool and silk.

Dean grunted. "And thanks to you, I'm not. Drop it Sam, we've got rottener fish to fry. Did you tell them about Blaine?"

Sam pulled his gaze from the carpet, how was he supposed to explain that it was his fault that Dean had needed rescuing in the first place, that he could feel the air of deceit settling over the house and land. That he had felt it from the first moment they arrived.

"We can't tell them." Dean said firmly. It was an attractive idea and Sam was seriously considering the possibility of never having to mention the man's name again, Dean apparently interpreted the few seconds of silence as disapproval; he sat forward a little, his voice gaining strength.

"Sam, there's nothing they can do anyway. If we tell them, this place will be crawling with freaking cops. Awkward questions will be asked and they won't be thinking straight. We don't need the drama. We still have a job to do. They don't ever need to know that we found him. At least not right away." Dean slumped back into the pillows, clearly overcome by the effort of talking, and closed his eyes again.

Dean was right. Sam wasn't going to bother to protest such a practical if slightly callous sentiment, he did not owe these people anything, certainly not his brother's safety.

"Sure," he agreed quietly, nodding. Dean cracked open an eye in surprise and Sam shrugged at him.

"I thought you were dead," he repeated. Sam had never seen anybody manage to roll just one eye before.

S s S s S

Sam was pulling out his laptop when there was a gentle knock on the door and Mrs. Hawksworth appeared carrying a tray bearing a bowl, contents steaming, and a bottle of garish orange liquid. Sam took the tray from her as her attention was drawn to Dean, who appeared to be sleeping.

"How is he?" she whispered loudly, Sam was just about to answer when Dean spoke.

"He's been better. But, hey, nothing I can't handle, Millie." Dean raised a weak hand and gestured her towards the bed.

"Dean, my dear boy, you gave us all quiet a scare." Mrs. Hawksworth's voice wavered as she hurried to his side; she sat on the bed and took his hand in her own, clasping it warmly. Unbelievable. Sam set the tray on the bedside table.

"Lotte's made some of her linensuppe, lentils, it's very good, and on the advice of Dr. Browne I have got you some Pedialyte," Mrs. Hawksworth informed him earnestly. Dean looked suspiciously at the tray.

Sam smirked. "It's for kids, Dean. Helps them get back on their feet after a nasty tummy upset. You'll like it, nice and sugary." Dean glared at him, but it lacked its usual vigor.

Mrs. Hawksworth smiled at them both and patted Dean's hand, and then surprised Sam with a question.

"Did you learn anything new today? I imagine that this little setback will not deter you from getting to the bottom of this dreadful matter. Thank goodness I insisted that Rudy went out to find you." She looked at Dean. "Do you know what it was that attacked you, my dear?"

Sam had to bite his tongue, quashing the urge to tell her that yes; they were very much deterred and would soon be on their way, thank you. Dean smiled at her with obvious approval and squeezed the hand holding his.

"No such luck, Millie. We don't know what we're dealing with, yet. I don't remember that much. Sam's got some ideas. Don't you worry, we don't leave a job until it's done. We'll get whatever son..," Dean coughed, "SOB is out there. Won't we Sam?"

Sam bared his teeth in a close approximation of a smile.

"Yep. Absolutely, Mrs. Hawksworth," he said trying to inject a little sincerity into his voice and failing if the way Dean's left eyelid momentarily convulsed was anything to go by. He gave himself a swift mental kick. Focus on the job, get it done and get Dean away from here, he thought, determinedly ignoring the guileless and compassionate gaze of Mrs. Hawksworth and the quizzical expression on Dean's drawn features.

"Perhaps later I could ask you all a few questions later, I kind of missed it last night. I just want to confirm a couple of things."

Mrs. Hawkworth released her hold on Dean's hand, pressing it gently into the comforter.

"We can have an early supper; it'll be ready in an hour or so. Come down then." She smiled fondly at Dean. "I'm afraid you'll be sitting this one out. First Samuel and now you, it's been a strange day. Now have some of that soup and get some more rest. " She closed the door quietly behind her.

Dean looked at the tray and then at Sam and then back at the tray. Sam sighed heavily and then grinned, grabbing the Pedialyte and thrusting it under Dean's nose.

"Doctor's orders." Trust Dean to actually like the stuff. There was no justice.


	14. Chapter 14

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 14**

**S s S s S **

Dean slurped down the soup and immediately afterwards fell asleep, leaving Sam to slide away and clean off several layers of accumulated mud. The guest bathroom was extravagantly appointed with pink fluffy towels, expensive bars of lavender soap and an enormous whirlpool tub. Prominently displayed on the shelves above the bath were neatly spaced bottles of various colored liquids. Picking a small round bottle filled with a dark green liquid, Sam eased out the stopper and took a cautious sniff. The thin oil in the bottle smelled of warm pine and cypress, it was a heady and rich earthy scent, so unlike the damp lifeless odor of the forest.

Sam tipped a generous amount into the steaming waters and sank into the depths with a contented moan. Five minutes, he would give himself five minutes and just not think, about anything. Sam breathed deeply, the fragrant steam filling his nostrils. He slipped further down into the tub, closing his eyes and tilting his head back until only his nose and chin were above the water. Man, this was probably as close to heaven as he was ever going to get. He stretched out his limbs, floating comfortable in the hot water. This totally had to be the biggest bathtub ever. Sam drifted contently, falling quickly into an almost blissful state of relaxation. His mind wandered; it was surprisingly easy to turn off the jumble of ever present thoughts and worries.

Warm scented water filled his ears and lapped over his eyes, soothing away his aches and pains and numbing his consciousness. Lines of light danced behind his eyelids and as he lay there unmoving, the lines began to form patterns. Circles and lopsided stars flashed on and off, gradually mutating into a more recognizable shape. His eye muscles twitched and the lines shifted again. A face? No, not a face, but something like it, some form he knew he should recognize. Weird. It wavered in the dark, slowly becoming more defined. A strange twisted form with uneven elongated limbs, empty eyes demanding his attention. Like a distorted neon sign against the night, it was the image of the long departed woodland sprite. Sam jerked his head back in surprise, trying to distance himself from his vision, opening his mouth in shock and gulping in the now tepid bathwater. He thrashed around, splashing and spluttering, spitting out water, before pulling himself into a sitting position. He coughed, thumping himself on the chest and flopping over the side of the bath. Sam grabbed a towel, drying his face roughly, the adrenalin burst from what he had seen quivering down his limbs. Things were seriously wrong with his life, he thought wearily, when he couldn't even take a bath without risking near drowning.

He dragged himself from the tub and wrapped himself in the biggest, fluffiest towel he could find and trudged back into the bedroom. Dean was still asleep. Sam collapsed on to his bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. The tree sprite had gone, kaput, finito; expertly dispatched to the big timber lot in the sky. Sam rubbed his forehead. He felt a little spacey; maybe the bathwater had been too hot. So, it couldn't be the tree sprite out there in the forest, bleeding the life from animals and the occasional unwary lawyer. Dean was right about that. So. So. It wasn't the sprite.Sam said it aloud.

"It's not the sprite, because." Dean stirred slightly. Sam ignored him, concentrating. He was missing something. He tried again. "It's not the tree guardian, out there, because..."

"Because tree guardians protect things." Dean was awake and apparently finishing sentences.

Sam froze, eyes wide and then clapped a hand over his face.

"Oh. Fuck," he groaned. God, he was so spectacularly stupid.

He peered at Dean through his fingers. Dean had rolled over onto his side and was blinking blearily at him. There was much more color to his skin now.

"Is there a point to your inane ramblings?" Dean yawned.

Sam felt the immediate and inexplicable urge to confess.

"You look better and I am a total dumbass." Saying so didn't make him feel any better but at least Dean couldn't accuse him of hiding his mistakes.

Dean didn't seem particularly moved or interested by Sam's confession. He rubbed his eyes and bit off another yawn to comment.

"And you've only just figured that out. Wow. Color me impressed. Not." He struggled to sit up, bunching the pillows behind him. "I'm hungry, no scratch that. I'm starving, when do we get to eat?"

"Dean, I'm serious." Sam sat up, clutching his towel tightly.

Dean raised an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "Me too. I could eat a horse. Why are you wearing a big pink towel?"

Sam glanced down at the towel in surprise and then back at his brother.

"Uh, I've just had a bath. Look Dean, I don't know why I didn't put it together before. I mean it's so obvious, but it was a few years ago and a lot's happened since then, so I know I should have figured it out before, but it was my first hunt on my own, so." Dean scowled at him and he hurried on. "The tree sprite, it was dangerous, okay, it was mad. But it was only trying to protect itself and the forest, from what's happening now. I guess it could sense it beginning. It knew something was wrong and it reacted." Sam raised his hand toward the window, palm out, fingers pointing. "And I screwed up, didn't do the research, didn't see it and I burnt the poor sucker."

He dropped his hand, shoulders slumping. "And I'm sorry, you could have been killed, because I made a mistake," he finished breathlessly.

Dean studied him for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing.

"Come here," it was close to an order and in his surprise Sam reluctantly obeyed, moving to the opposite bed.

"Sit." Dean glared belligerently at the pink towel. Somewhat warily, Sam sat; Dean grabbed his chin and pulled him forward until they were almost nose-to-nose, Dean's fingers felt cold on his skin, and then he was pushed back. Sam rubbed his chin.

"Wanna tell me why your pupils are blown?" Dean spoke quietly but there was the hard edge of anger in his voice.

"What? What are you talking about?" Sam drew back. Dean was looking angrier by the second; perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut.

"Your pupils are dilated Sam and you're flushed and sweating. Been smokin' the funny stuff?"

Sam shook his head mutely, not quite able to process Dean's words. What with one thing or another, he hadn't felt like his old self for a few days. It was getting harder and harder to establish a baseline for normal, anyway.

"Yeah, right. Stupid question. Someone around here is beginning to seriously piss me off. Sneakin' around, slipping roofies to my little brother. I hate to tell you this Sammy, but these aren't _nice_ people." Dean threw back the covers and slid from the bed.

"Hey, I don't think so." Sam objected, but Dean waved a dismissive hand in his direction and gingerly made his way over to the bathroom.

"I'm going to clean up and then we're going downstairs and if we don't get any damn answers, we're leaving."

Sam stared as Dean disappeared into the bathroom. Dean never dropped a job like that.

Bathroom. Visions. Shit, not roofies. Sam was pretty sure what was left of his virtue was still intact, but something else. He hurried after Dean. The small bottle was where he had left it, on the side of the bath. Dean was filling the sink and examining a wrapped bar of soap with undisguised hostility.

"Lavender. Jesus."

"We can't leave Dean. Come on, you like Mrs. Hawksworth. You promised her. We're not going to leave them to it, are we? It is kind of my fault. If I had done a better job first time." Sam realized with surprise that he was fighting against the very thing he himself had decided upon earlier.

Dean slammed the soap down next to the basin.

"You were a kid, Sam. You did what they asked. And mistake or not, I don't like people fucking with us. Rudy seems to be in all the wrong places at the right time, don't you think? Somebody, somehow, sent Blaine out there. Must have done. If it's supernatural, we'll deal with it. If it's somebody screwing us around, I'm not risking you… We're not wasting our time. That's the way it's gonna be, Sam. Okay?"

Sam wanted to argue, if for no other reason than he felt he should, but he just nodded. He picked up the bottle of bath oil and offered it to Dean.

"I poured some of this in the bathwater. You could say it was a very relaxing experience. I just thought I was tired, but I guess I did feel a little bit out of it." Sam grimaced, wrinkling his nose at Dean's incredulous stare.

"What?"

"Give me a break. You didn't notice you were high? Didn't college teach you anything?" Dean took a tentative sniff at the bottle still in Sam's hand. "Smells sort of herby. Could be anything. Did it have any other effect?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably and Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the sink, waiting.

"Well, I was in the bath when I figured out the stuff about the tree sprite. It was almost like I dreamed about it, only I wasn't really asleep." Sam admitted sheepishly. "Dean, it was on the shelf. It's too random; no guarantee that I, or you for that matter, would go anywhere near it."

Dean rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Yeah, still doesn't change the fact that someone around here knows a hell of a lot about hallucinogens, charms and who knows what other stuff. You'd think someone with that kind of knowledge wouldn't need people like us around. Ever get the feeling we're being played, Sammy?"

Sam hesitated, he hadn't thought about it in exactly those terms. The abstract feelings of familiarity and a place off-kilter had skewed his perception of the situation.

"I told you this place was giving me the creeps. Rudy knows something and that sister of his makes my skin crawl." And his head ache, but that information was too closely associated with other issues he preferred not to examine too closely.

"I know. She's got that Morticia Addams thing going on." Dean pulled off his tee shirt. "I'm getting ripe. Go get dressed." He gave the bath a dark look. "I think I'll have a shower."

Sam looked at the bottle in his hand, rolling it over his fingers and looked across the room at the others lined up on the shelf. Dean was in the shower now, steam billowing over the frosted glass door.

He's not fully recovered yet, we're not ready for this, Sam thought uneasily. Dean had missed it. Failing to notice that Sam, late of the John Winchester school of due diligence, had neglected to mention the unusual and ostensibly unique experience of having a vision or dream or whatever. Sam should have voiced his suspicions immediately, because things like that weren't supposed to be commonplace, drug-induced or not.

He wasn't going to be able to keep this from Dean forever. He turned and upending the bottle, emptied its contents into the sink, watching the green liquid slowly circle the drain. A potent little lie hidden in a pretty glass bottle. Sam turned the faucet and let the water wash it away. He watched the oil swirl downward and somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a small connection sparked and an idea began to form.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 15**

**S s S s S **

Sam snapped his laptop shut, letting it slide onto the bed he got up and went to the window. It was dark and the slow rise of the hills only just visible against the night sky. The skies were now bubbling with high dark storm clouds and the light of the moon winked in and out as the clouds gathered.

Behind him, Dean was pulling on his clothes and cursing.

"Where the fuck…, damn it." There was a rustle of clothes and a muffled thump as something hit the floor.

"Sam, have you seen my gun?" Dean sounded aggravated.

Sam turned away from the window. "You mean the one you took with you today? Gone. You didn't have it when I found you."

"Well, that's just frickin' peachy. That was my third favorite." Dean sat on his bed and bent down to put on his boots.

"Get another. Or were you planning on shooting someone over dessert?" Sam watched as his brother struggled, tugging weakly at his knotted laces.

"Stranger things have happened." Dean successfully finished his task and straightened up, panting slightly.

"For God's sake, Dean. You're wheezing like a 90-year-old asthmatic. Are you sure you're up to this?" Sam asked although he already knew what Dean's answer would be.

"Up to what? Duking it out with a bunch of old geezers. I think I can manage, Sam." Dean confident leer wasn't quite up to his usual standards.

"You're a regular hero. You'll probably want to make sure you finish dinner before you start with the accusations, though," Sam said, trying to decide whether the nervous knot in his stomach was due to the prospect of interrogating their hosts or having to exercise his rusty table manners.

"Good point." Dean agreed thoughtfully. "Food first." He nodded towards the laptop. "Any ideas."

"Hmm. Yes. You're not going to like it. It's a little alternative. Anyway, it's just a theory and I have no idea how it ties into the Hawksworths." It wasn't the most comprehensive theory, but Sam was rather proud of it.

"Yeah. Yeah. Standard disclaimers. Hit me with it, Sammy." Dean leaned back on the bed.

"It's a vortex." Sam pronounced evenly, attempting to downplay his satisfaction at having arrived at this conclusion.

Dean frowned, pursing his mouth up and nodding. "I don't get it."

"A vortex. Dean. Geographical areas that some people believe are energy portals, power spots like Sedona in Arizona or Stonehenge in England…"

"I know what a vortex is, you hippie freak. We went to Sedona, remember. Dad wanted to salt and burn the place on principle." Dean interrupted, sitting forward, elbows on knees. "Aren't vortexes supposed to be good for you? Positive vibes and all that healing crap."

"Vortices." Sam corrected, Dean sneered at him. "There are both, Dean. Some emanate positive energy. Some negative. For example, negative ones are linked to earthquake zones. The Bermuda Triangle is one. And if you believe it, there are vortices that disrupt or absorb energy. " He tapped his wrist. "My watch stopped working this morning, about the time we started down the trail. Battery's dead. And you saw what happened to Blaine." Sam paused and swallowed. "And I saw what almost happened to you, Dean. You were fading away right in front of me."

Dean met his eyes and Sam offered him a half smile. "It's just a theory and it doesn't explain everything. I know. But..." Sam continued, carefully keeping his voice neutral, "the effects reported on a couple of the sites I looked at gel with what's been happening here. People feeling uncomfortable in its general vicinity, strange effects on the fauna and flora. Unusual localized weather patterns."

Dean stood. "You're right." He stretched. "It doesn't explain everything. It might be the effect, but what's the cause? Things like that don't just pop up over night. There'd be legends, local stories. Tell me your pitiful attempts at research at least covered those areas."

Sam ignored the jibe. "Yes,' he replied pointedly. " I told you, there was nothing. I think the area was logged once, a hundred years ago or so. But there were no records of settlements. Maybe that in itself is significant. The land's been left pretty much to itself. It was parceled up and sold of as part of several building lots in the forties. That's it."

"Okay, so what caused your old pal, the tree spirit to start showing up and get all excited? You said it attacked you. How does that connect with it getting wigged out by a vortex suddenly appearing?" Dean gave him a sly smile, "I guess it thought you sucked."

"Oh, ha ha," Sam ground out, his concern for his brother waning by the second. Maybe the dots weren't connecting in a way that made any sense; it didn't mean that he was wrong; he just couldn't see the bigger picture, yet. "Fine, we need more information. Let's go get it."

S s S s S

The large kitchen window was uncovered to the night, but the room was brightly lit, the agreeable aroma of cooking lingered in the air. The table was set with embroidered napkins, each rolled in silver rings, individual wooden salad bowls, a basket of fresh bread and two big round casserole dishes. It was, on the surface, a warm, homey scene that made Sam instinctively recoil. Dean eyes were fixed on the table and as he licked his lips, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"They like to say grace, probably best to keep your fingers crossed."

Agatha and Rudy were already seated at the far side of table, in front of the window. Agatha was sipping from a large glass of red wine and Rudy, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, was reading a small leather bound book, there was no sign of Mrs. Hawksworth. Rudy looked up as they approached.

"Ah, there you are. You must be feeling better. Sit down. Millicent is on the 'phone, I think. Would you like a drink, perhaps some tea. Dean? I have a very energizing ginseng mix."

"No thanks. Not really my thing. I could go for a beer though" Dean was brazenly forthright. "It's all the vitamin B, very good for you."

For once Sam was only envious of Dean's lack of regard for the finer points of social niceties.

Rudy looked a little startled. "Oh, of course. Millicent likes to keep a few bottles in the 'fridge. Please help yourself."

"Thanks. Sam, want one?" Dean was across the kitchen in a few steps.

"No thanks." Sam suspected that whatever the hallucinogenic substance he had recently inhaled probably wouldn't mix too well with alcohol.

Rudy put his book aside and look expectantly up at Sam, motioning him to sit. Next to him, Agatha set her wine glass on the table, leaned back in her chair and put her hands flat against the tabletop. She stared at him with an almost clinical detachment. He squirmed in his seat but met her gaze, the muscles of his forehead bunched in anticipation of the rapid lance of pain that pulsed behind his eyes. With careful deliberation he raised his hands from his lap and placed them flat on the table, mirroring the actions of the woman opposite him and watched for her reaction. He could see her nostril flare and her gray eyes were hard. Her features and slight frame were consistent with her age but much like her brother she carried about her an air of strength.

From behind him came the clink of bottles and the scrape of a chair across the tiled floor.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was right in his ear, pulling him from the moment.

He lifted his hands away from the table and turned, Dean was now standing next to him, clutching a bottle of expensive looking beer and across the table Rudy, wide eyed and pale was looking at first to his sister and then to Sam.

There were a few tense seconds of silence, Sam turned to Dean and then to Rudy, who lowered his eyes. With her hands still on the table, Agatha pushed up and stood, her cool, unruffled gaze passing over each of them.

"Sam?" Dean repeated, drawing the word out slowly.

Sam opened his mouth to reply but had no words to articulate the truth of the scene before him. There was nothing real about the situation. No one here was who they seemed to be, including himself and Dean and yet here they all were, about to break bread together. It was a complete artifice; everybody in the room knew this, but still played the game. Sam had a sudden and sharp pang of longing for his college days, for that last eighteen months spent with Jessica, when he had been the happiest he had ever been. Life had been simple; he'd done what had been expected of him. He had been a good boyfriend, a good student and although he had kept much of his past hidden; his present had been free of the constant deception and fraud that he was now forced into almost every day. There were times now, brief uncontrollable moments when he thought that he hated it so much he couldn't stand it, but most of the time he slipped into the role assigned to him by his family as easily as breathing.

He turned to look at his brother as Mrs. Hawksworth came bustling back into the kitchen, her face tight with worry.

"Oh good, you're all here. I have just received some rather unsettling news." She sat down next to her husband, who grabbed her hand, rather quickly, Sam thought, undoubtedly grateful for the timely distraction.

"More bad news, my dear?"

"I'm not sure. That was Diana on the telephone." She looked across the table, smiling tremulously. "Alan's girlfriend. He's divorced. Pity, his first wife was such nice girl. Anyway, she called because she was expecting Alan home early this morning and there's no sign of him. He's not answering his cell phone, and no one at the office has seen him since he left yesterday morning. She's terribly worried, poor thing and Alan's always been very particular about that sort of thing."

Not any more, he's not; Sam couldn't stop the thought and cringed inwardly. Dean and Agatha simultaneously fell into their seats and Sam noted that the expression he recognized on Dean's face as manufactured concern was remarkably similar to the one that settled over Agatha's face as she leant toward her brother and sister-in-law.

"Now, now, Millie. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. Alan can be a tad unpredictable at times. It's probably this new business venture of his, he mentioned meeting someone locally." Rudy focused his attention on his wife, his voice soothing and betraying no signs of stress or tension.

"Yes, that's most likely, but with everything that's been happening I can't help but feel concerned." Mrs. Hawksworth sighed.

Under the table, Sam wiped his hands nervously over his jeans. Dean was clenching and unclenching his hand around the neck of the beer bottle, his features schooled into a bland expression of disinterest. He met Sam's eyes for an instant with a hard stare that all but shouted 'keep your mouth shut'.

Sam had no intention of doing anything else. There was a time and a place for everything and their knowledge of Blaine's actual whereabouts and current health was something to be deployed at the moment most beneficial to the effective conclusion of the case in hand. Which really didn't explain why thirty seconds later as Mrs. Hawksworth fretted over her nephew and his dangerously fast car, Rudy nodding randomly at her side and Agatha quietly excusing herself and retreating from the table, Sam heard himself blurt:

"Blaine's dead. We found him in the woods this morning." Oops. There went dinner.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 16**

**S s S s S **

_A/N: Should have mentioned it before, but many thanks for the kind and thoughtful reviews!_

**S s S s S **

As conversations stoppers went it was right up there, Dean's stunned face of bugged eyed surprise would have been impressive if not for Sam's concern that the sudden shock might compound his brother's recent trauma and cause some sort of fit. Agatha froze as she circumnavigated the long table, head down and long hair swinging forward and Mrs. and Mrs. Hawksworth wore twin expressions of disbelief and confusion.

The silence dragged on as they all stared at him and Sam stared right back blinking owlishly at them, a small part of his brain shrieking in horror, while the rest of him tingled with a childish sense of liberation.

"What. The. Fuck. Why did you tell them he's dead?" Dean choked out, the words barely above a whisper; only his voice broke and rose loudly at the end, the final word echoing around the kitchen.

"Dead?" Mrs. Hawksworth quavered, "I don't…what? Where is Alan? Rudy?" She squeezed her husband's hand. "Alan's not in the woods, is he. Why would you say such a thing, Samuel?"

Rudy shook his head slowly apparently bewildered, although Sam thought he saw a trace of fear in his eyes. However, it was possible that he was projecting that specific emotion, as Dean reached out a hand and clamped it down hard on his shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh.

"Answer the lady, Sam." Dean's voice held all the warmth of an artic storm.

It was too late to soften the blow, so Sam plowed on. "This morning, before Dean was attacked, we found Blaine, up at the clearing. Pretty sure it's him. He was like the animals, the one's you said you had found in the forest." Sam paused, from the corner of his eye he could see Agatha turn toward him. "I'm sorry, but there was nothing we could do and after that, my priority was making sure that my brother didn't end up the same way." The hand on his shoulder relaxed its death grip, rested there for a moment and then fell away.

Mrs. Hawksworth shook her head minutely. "I don't understand. If what you're saying is true, why didn't you tell us? How could you not? I gave you my trust, I.. I ..." She swallowed the rest of her words, her eyes bright with grief.

"You can trust us, Millie." Sam jerked in surprise at Dean's voice. "You can trust us to the job, our job. Who we trust is another matter altogether. We came here because you asked us, because you were afraid and yes, we found your nephew. We don't know why he was out there, among other things, but someone here does." Dean looked to each of them and smiled humorlessly. "So why don't you cut the crap and let us in on what exactly you guys are up to." He reached across the table a snagged a chunk of bread, ripped off a corner and popped it into his mouth.

There was no immediate reply, only the wall clock ticking and Dean smacking his lips and chomping unconcernedly on another flaky crust. The more disturbed the Hawksworths became the more Dean relaxed, capitalizing on the effect of Sam's impulsive announcement. Sam thought about telling Dean that it had all been part of a calculated strategy. Looking across the tops of still slightly steaming dishes and gleaming glassware at the befuddled faces of the couple who had so willingly invited them into their home, Sam wondered how long it would be before someone suggested calling the police. Keeping his eyes on the Hawksworths, he started compiling a mental checklist of possible escape routes, the number of fake ID cards that were tucked away in the car and how far it was to the state line.

"I'm not sure I understand. Do you think we're involved in all these strange happenings?" Mrs. Hawksworth pulled her hand away from her husband's and straightened her shoulders. "If what you say is true and it is Alan out there then we must call the authorities, whatever you believe to be the cause."

Dean brushed away a few crumbs and leaned forward, nodding. "Sure, you must do what you think is best. But whatever's out there isn't going to be stopped by a few flatfoots and they're going to want to know what Blaine was doing here and generally be sniffing around asking questions, you know how it goes. What was your relationship to the deceased? Why do you keep illegal substances in your bathroom? Are you aware of any unnatural practices performed on your property?"

Rudy's mouth fell opened slightly and he immediately clamped it shut, Sam could tell by the way Dean shifted in his chair that he had caught the old man's reaction, but he wasn't looking at his brother, he was looking at Agatha still standing at the end of the table. She was looking at her brother, her features impassive but there was a glint of something cold and unyielding in her eyes. Mrs. Hawksworth was talking again but Sam wasn't listening, his focus pulled towards Agatha. It was hard to tell in the bright artificial light of the kitchen, but a faint aura shimmered around her form. Sam squinted, her silhouette losing its definition against the backdrop of the window and blurring into the background colors of the night sky. Agatha shifted her gaze to Sam, and he was positive that the tight thin line of her lips quirked in amusement, for a moment she lowered her gaze and slowly raised her eyes back to Sam's own. He shrank back, his muscles involuntary contracting in fear. Her eyes had no pupils, no whites visible, just two shining silver whirlpools spinning away to infinity.

Sam cried out. A white hot knife of pain sliced between his eyes and he threw his hands up to his face. He hunched over, pressing his palm into the overwhelming sensation. He fell forward, knees hitting the hard floor, someone grabbed his shoulders, keeping him upright and hands encircled his wrists, tugging them away from his face. He tried to curl in on himself, but Dean kept a firm grip on him.

"Sammy? Hey, hey. I'm here, okay. S'okay. Come on." Fear and anger were both evident in Dean's voice and Sam shuddered in relief as the stabbing pain quickly faded, dropping his head onto his brother's shoulder. Dean released the hold on his wrists and his hand settled on Sam's neck, the cool touch banishing the last tendrils of discomfort.

Sam could hear the concerned exclamations of Mrs. Hawksworth from somewhere behind him and the gentle tones of Rudy's reply. He sighed into Dean's shirt. This was beyond humiliating, twice in two days. The Mexican floor tiles were a vibrant terra cotta overlaid with small blue squares and Sam hated them. At least this time, he knew the source of the problem.

"Agatha," he murmured.

"No kidding. I had my money on Rudy. Why's she picking on you?" Dean whispered, tugging at Sam and they both stood. Sam winced, wishing he could answer that question

This time none of the Hawksworths had rushed to his aid, they were all standing now, faces pale and strained. Agatha, for once, looked disconcerted and was pressing a bony finger into her temple, brows furrowed above ordinary grey eyes. Maybe he had suffered another hallucination, Sam blinked a few time in quick succession. The bright burn of an after image danced in the air before him, a ghostly silver negative captured by his retinas. Seeing was believing and Sam made sure that he was behind Dean, his brother between him and the slight figure of the old woman.

"I don't know what your problem is lady, but leave my brother out of it or I gotta tell you, you won't like my solution." Dean stated flatly, eyeing Agatha dispassionately.

Agatha did not acknowledge Dean's threat, instead calmly addressing her brother. "This is ridiculous. I do not see how these amateurs could be of any help. Especially," and she gave a Dean cursory glance, "those who apparently cannot see what is right under their nose."

Rudy looked helplessly between them.

Dean's angry gaze landed on Rudy. "Whatever hoodoo your sister's got working for her, tell her to tune it out. Or I'll do it myself." On any normal day Sam might have had something to say about threatening little old ladies with bodily harm, but he was getting tired of being assaulted by unexpected headaches, Dean was hungry and it was probably all going end in tears, most likely his.

"Rudy, Agatha?" Mrs. Hawksworth implored, but neither responded to her plea.

"Please, you don't understand. It's nothing to do with this. We're not… She couldn't. Aggie, tell them." Rudy looked beseechingly at his sister.

Agatha was still for a moment and then gave her brother a cold smile.

"You get more like her every day, brother dear, although you deny our heritage. I cannot believe you thought these pathetic excuses for hunters would understand anything. Millie", her voice rising in strength and volume, "you should call the police, if Alan is indeed dead, I am sure they are to blame," and without a glance in their direction Agatha walked purposefully from the kitchen. Sam sank down on his chair, trying to hide his relief. Dean stood behind him; Sam could feel him glowering at Agatha's retreating back.

"Don't go anywhere, now." Dean called after her and then bent over Sam's shoulder to grab his beer from the table, for a few seconds the only sound in the kitchen was wet sound of Dean chugging from the bottle. He set the empty bottle down with a contented groan, clapping Sam on the back.

"Ah, that's better. Now where were we? Oh yeah, waiting for someone to tell us the truth."


	17. Chapter 17

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 17**

**S s S s S**

There was no immediate response to Dean's request and Sam could feel his brother rocking gently back and forth on his heels waiting expectantly for the Hawksworths to confess their deepest sins. Neither seemed inclined to offer up themselves up to closer scrutiny. Sam could hear the slight hiss of air as Dean sucked in an impatient breath through gritted teeth. Mrs. Hawksworth sat back down, shakily reaching for an already open bottle of red wine.

"I think," she said, steadfastly ignoring the men in the room, "I might need a drink." She poured a healthy amount into a glass and took a few tense sips, clutching the glass close to her bosom. "I'm afraid I am at a loss, Mr. Winchester, I know nothing more than I have already told you and Samuel, and I would trust that you believe me." She took another quick fortifying sip of wine. "Rudy?"

Rudy was gazing sightlessly at the kitchen door, lost in some internal contemplation, his fingers fluttering nervously over the hem of his sweater. "Uh, yes, well. Agatha's very sensitive, easily upset. Please don't take anything she said to heart. Yes. What?"

Dean huffed quietly in disbelief. Sam silently agreed, Agatha's parting words were not those of someone in distress, although Sam recognized that it had been their intent to wound. Rudy was clearly disturbed by something she had said and he doubted that Rudy was too worried about his sister trashing the Winchester's hunting abilities. One word kept replaying in his memory, a persistent looping sound bite that sounded dangerously familiar. Agatha's voice mixing with his father's strident tones, or maybe it was Dean's; until it was screeching mishmash of noisy recall bouncing around his head. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain the contradictory voices and looked across at Rudy, who at first avoided his questioning gaze, dipping his head.

Mrs. Hawksworth took a large gulp of wine. "What is it?" She demanded from behind the wide rim of glassware. "What does any of this have to do with Alan?"

"Mr. Hawksworth?" Sam took a deep breath; Rudy raised his eyes, grey pupils covered by a thin teary sheen that mirrored the overhead light. Sam's heart skipped a beat, but Rudy blinked and moved out of the direct glare of the overhead light. Nothing like Agatha. "What did she mean by your heritage?" Sam asked carefully, Mrs. Hawksworth was draining the last drops of red from the bottle into her glass.

"Heritage? Nothing. I don't think she meant anything. Really. At all." Rudy clutched the hem of his sweater with tight knuckle-white fingers.

"Are you all right dear, you've gone awfully pale." Mrs. Hawksworth leaned toward her husband. "Perhaps she was referring to your family fortune, you know, your old money versus my new money. Always a sticking point," she gave a small hiccup.

"It wasn't very much of a fortune, Millie. Not that it made any difference in the end." Rudy sighed and watched as his wife emptied her glass.

"Wonderful. You can compare bank accounts later, but maybe right now, you could answer the damn question," Dean snapped, "because from where I'm standing you're lying through your expensively maintained teeth."

Rudy drew away from his wife and sagged down onto a chair, resignation coloring his features. "It has nothing to do with any of this, but you would probably find out anyway. She was referring to our parents," he hesitated, "our mother, you may have heard of her. Dorothy Robertson."

"Well now, that explains a few things, doesn't it?" Dean remarked acidly. The name meant nothing to Sam and he glanced up at Dean with a questioning frown.

"Good God, Sam. So much for your fancy education. Dorothy Robertson famous medium, psychic, shaman –wannabe. Had quite the rep in the fifties and sixties. Pretty legit stuff too, by all accounts."

Sam's frown deepened. "How legit?"

Dean kept his eyes on Rudy. "Enough for hunters to notice. I've heard the name of couple of times. From Bobby and Hacky Jacques. He met her once, I think."

"Rudy. What are they saying? I thought your mother was a college professor. Like your father." Mrs. Hawksworth's voice wobbled slightly and set down her wine glass with an unsteady thunk, clattering against the cutlery.

Rudy stared down at the floor. "I'm sorry, my dear. It was something I wanted to leave behind. Agatha and I, our upbringing, it was a little different. We carried on their legacy for a while, our heritage if you will, after they died, but when I met you, I couldn't do it anymore. I didn't want to."

Finally, Sam understood, all the little bits and pieces clicking into place, fitting into a picture that he had only glimpsed. He felt faintly embarrassed; he should have seen it earlier. "You were hunters, your parents and you and your sister."

Rudy nodded sadly. "Not a word we used, but essentially, yes. My mother came from a long line of seers and shamans. The spirit world, the paranormal, the supernatural, whatever name you may choose, if was part of our everyday life. My parents didn't consider themselves hunters, a little too low class for their tastes. My father was college professor. He wasn't talented like my mother, but he found it all so very fascinating."

"And Agatha?" Sam interjected softly, not wanting to interrupt the flow of words.

"Took after our mother. My practical knowledge is extensive, if I say so myself, but Agatha always had the raw talent. She was an accomplished medium at an early age, I..."

"So what?" Dean interrupted impatiently. "Sorry old timer, but I'm calling bullshit on this. You're saying you stopped hunting, but I bet you kept right on dabbling. Charms, rituals, whatever helped you get by. Same with your sister." He nudged Sam. "At least one of you is involved with your woodland troubles. I think it's you, on the other hand Sam thinks your sister's picking on him. Personally I don't care. I'll take you both out, if it comes to it."

It was Dean at his belligerent best; Sam resisted the urge to rub his aching head. Seated alone at the head of the table, Mrs. Hawksworth's face was leeched of all color; she pressed a visibly trembling hand over her heart.

"Tell me Rudy; tell me that this is not true. Tell me that this is some horrible misunderstanding and that these boys are wrong. Please." She was already unsure of her husband's reassurance. Sam had seen the same thing too many times, people confronted with a world that they gladly embraced in story and legend, made dangerously and abruptly made real. Funny, she didn't seem to have a problem when it was him and Dean doing the dirty work. Okay, so that was a little unfair, Sam propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm and watched Rudy balk at his wife's palpable anguish, beside him Dean's stomach gurgled loudly.

"Millie, I promise, I don't know what it is out there. Or what may have happened to Alan but neither of us are involved. Agatha would never harm anyone. I could never harm anyone." Rudy moved back towards his wife.

Interesting choice of words, Sam thought. Rudy certainly had a way of bypassing a direct question. Mrs. Hawksworth obviously thought so too.

"That's not what I meant, Rudy. How much have you been hiding from me? In all our years together I never heard you talk about spirits or magic or anything like that. I know you love to grow your herbs, is that part of it too." Mrs. Hawksworth's voice was sharp, the effect of the better portion of a bottle of wine easily overcome. "And Agatha, she's what, a psychic? I thought she was a therapist, a counselor, before she retired and came here. For all that time you lied. Why? Why did you have to hide it? I wouldn't have cared. Why would you both want to make a fool of me for all this time?" The question remained unanswered, Rudy stuttering for an adequate reply.

And there it was again, that small prickly chill of recognition that Sam had failed to identify because it was easier to push it aside, rather than accept it for what it was. Dean leant over and grabbed another piece of bread, pressing a hand to his complaining stomach. There was no point in beating around the bush.

"How did they die, Mr. Hawksworth?" Sam asked, not bothering to qualify the question.

Rudy shoulders slumped and he buried his head in his hands, unruly white hair curling around his fingertips. "Does it matter? It was a long time ago. I was barely an adult. Agatha was only 17. They were gone and I did the best I could for both of us. We managed, we survived and that's what was important." He dropped his hands from his face and looked at Sam with tired reddened eyes. The old guy was at it again.

"So they bit off more than they could chew, then. What was it, a pissed off ghost, poltergeist, a demon, what?" Dean demanded with more interest than anger, cheeks bulging with bread.

Rudy was reaching out for his wife, who hands were tightly clenched to her chest. He dropped his hand in defeat.

"It was a routine clearing, or so they thought. An old school house bothered by some restless spirits. Children, my mother said. Agatha was helping her prepare and my father I were checking out another part of the house. Everything happened at once, the house was shaking, there were things flying through the air, screaming. Terrible chaos. My father went to find my mother and Agatha and somehow, something started a fire. I found Agatha, we escaped, but I never saw my parents or," Rudy swallowed, raising a hand to cover his eyes, "or heard from them again."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, and he was. Dean moved from behind his chair, stepping back, but the space between them only made him feel more confined. He felt cornered, bound by the sinuous parallels that had brought him to this house and these people. Tight bands of panic squeezed his chest, it was time to cut his losses, face the music and get the hell out of Dodge. Dean was obviously thinking along similar lines.

"Yeah, me too. But you're not poor little orphans anymore, and your talented sister keeps laying a whammy on my brother. Or do people collapse on your kitchen floor all the time?" There was a ragged gasp from Mrs. Hawksworth. "Not to mention all the other funky shit that keeps popping up all over the place, so either you level with us or we're gone." Dean moved forward, resting both hands on the table, chin jutting forward.

"Why did you let me deal with it, a college kid?" Sam pressed. "You must have known what it was and how to deal with it and now?"

Rudy was flustered. "It was Millie, if you remember. I had no idea that she had asked you to come the first time and as for now, well I'm getting older and this time, I really don't know what is going on. It is true I have always maintained an interest in things," he cleared his throat, and carefully avoided his wife's sad and steady gaze. "I was surprised by the violence of the spirit you first encountered and I planted the red elm to help re-balance that area. Certain things, I am adept at creating, you may have come across. I was only concerned in aiding your, um, investigation. As for Agatha, she is proud of who we were and grew to be a respected healer. She can sense things I cannot, but she would never hurt anyone. I know my sister." Rudy protested. "You must be reacting to something else. It is obviously powerful. You saw what happened to Dean."

A chair was dragged noisily across the tiles. They all watched as Mrs. Hawksworth slowly got to her feet, keeping her arms tucked tightly into her sides to control the fine tremors running down her body. Her voice trembled.

"You forgot to mention, my dear, how Agatha decided, at the last minute not to come to town with us today. Or how strenuously she objected to my calling Samuel again. Or how angry she was at Alan's suggestion of selling the acreage." Hers eyes overflowed, the tears tracking through the fine powder on her face. "Or how…" She swallowed, struggling to maintain control. "How Claire suffered from fainting spells and headaches as a teenager." She shook her head. "And I never saw it, until now but whatever you may think, Rudy, I'm not stupid. It was when her Aunt Aggie was around."

"Claire?" Sam asked, worried that he had missed a part of the puzzle.

"Our daughter, our only child. We sent her to Europe to complete her education. She lives in France now, with her family. Despite my misgivings, her father always encouraged her to stay abroad. I trusted his decision, but obviously not for the right reasons." Mrs. Hawksworth stared at her husband, who hunched away from her, guilt settling across his features.

There wasn't much Sam could say to such revelations even if he had wanted to, what could he possible say as a relationship unraveled untidily before him. So he concentrated on the more urgent matter of the possible connection between the woods and Agatha.

"Mr. Hawksworth, I understand you care a great deal for your sister, but you just admitted she can sense things, was raised to understand supernatural forces. We think that what's out there is a natural phenomenon, a vortex possibly. But something else; something more is manipulating the situation. We saw things that couldn't be there. Someone is triggering this thing. Can you honestly say that Agatha isn't capable of those things?" Sam didn't take his eyes of the figure opposite, keeping his eyes wide and his expression solemn and neutral.

"No." Rudy whispered.

"No, you can't say no, or no she can't". Dean was leaning on Sam's chair again. "Do you ever answer a question with a straight answer?"

Rudy stared blankly at Dean. "I need to talk with Agatha. Perhaps you should have some dinner, before it gets cold", he said abruptly. He gathered up the small book he had been reading and made his way around the table.

Mrs. Hawksworth stood, eyes fixed on the retreating form; her shattered expression at her family's betrayal was more than Sam could bear and he looked away.

"I think you should wait here. I won't be a moment," her voice faint, and lightly dabbing her eyes she followed her husband from the kitchen. Sam watched them go, catching Dean's eye and tilting his head.

"No, leave them." Dean grabbed his chair, sat down and pulled a large earthen ware casserole dish across the table. "I am so fuckin' hungry it's not even funny." He lifted the lid and helped himself to a large serving of roast meat and gravy. He pushed the dish toward Sam and surveyed the table. "I need potatoes."


	18. Chapter 18

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 18**

**S s S s S**

"That went well, don't ya think?" Dean mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potato.

"Can't wait to do it again." Sam replied, toying listlessly with some small buttered peas that rolled away from his fork and fell off his plate. Somewhere out in the hallway something clattered to the floor and both he and Dean leaned back in their chairs, listening intently. There was the sound of feet on the stairs and a muffled shout.

"Do you think they'll call the cops?" Sam cornered a pea hiding under the rim of his plate.

"Nah. They're gonna be too busy flinging accusations left, right and center. Give 'em a few minutes and we should be able to pick up some of the pieces. Good call by the way." Dean scraped his knife across his plate; the noise set Sam's teeth on edge.

"On what?"

"Creepy old Agatha."

"Thanks, I guess. She kind of made it a bit obvious in the end." Sam admitted carefully, avoiding bringing up the question of why it was Sam she had targeted. Although the more unsettling thought that he shoved aside as soon as it cropped up, after all why draw attention to herself, was that she had not singled him out all and that is was no more than a freakish coincidence. Sam gave up on his appetite, tossing his fork onto the table.

Rudy came rushing back into the kitchen, wild eyed and breathless. "Agatha, I can't find her anywhere. She's gone."

"Did you talk to her? Did you see her?" Dean gave his empty dinner plate a leisurely push and swiveled around in his chair. "Have you checked with Lotte?"

"No and Lotte left for a friend's earlier. Agatha must have left immediately. We must find her."

"Where would she go, Mr. Hawksworth?" Sam stood. Rudy moved past him and over to the window.

"Out there. Nice. It's cold, it's wet and it's dark. What do you expect us to do?" Dean didn't get up, lolling casually in his chair, one arm hooked over the back. Dean had a pose for every occasion; it was all an act, Sam knew. Dean was probably itching to get out there a drag Agatha back, preferably by the scruff of her neck.

Rudy treated them to the full force of his rheumy eyed stare, it was disturbingly affecting.

"Please help me find her. She doesn't know what she's doing. I should have paid more attention. I'm so sorry." From his back pocket he produced the small leather book that Sam had noticed him reading earlier. He dropped it onto the table, nodding toward Sam.

Sam picked the book up and flicked through the pages. The paper was old and faded, handwriting covering the pages in a neat, copperplate. There was a silk bookmark near the middle, Sam tucked it at the back and held the book up to the light. Instructions for a summoning charm.

"_You _summoned the vortex." Sam was taken aback.

"No, no. I summoned you. Of course, I didn't know at the time that is was you who would turn up, but using the elements that were present at the first occurrence, I was trying to invoke a force to help counteract the current problem. And here you are."

"But your wife called us." Sam objected, jerking back the hand that was unconsciously sliding down to his backside.

"Yes, exactly. You were supposed to come, don't you see. You understand. You can help us. "

"Help you do what? Stop your sister. 'Cos I guess I'm not so good at reading between the lines, what with my recent injuries." Dean made a great show of massaging his shoulder and wincing.

"Help me find her; this vortex energy has obviously been influencing her in some way."

"Obviously." Dean commented with more than just a hint of sarcasm.

"Dean." Sam warned without heat. "What my brother is saying, whether we believe you or not, it's dangerous out there and if your sister is involved in any way, well she could get in h..harm's way." Get in our way, was what almost came out of his mouth, his tongue twisting around quickly to stifle the words.

"No matter, I'll do anything I can for her." Rudy seemed determined and Sam didn't doubt the man's strength and ability to do what was needed, but the old guy had a huge blind spot, and right now it was out there, up to all sorts of bad tricks.

There was a sound from the door and they all turned.

"Thank you for making you priorities so abundantly clear, Rudy. I was just coming to tell you that the cars are still in the garage. She must be walking. No doubt, you already knew that. If you need me, which I doubt, I'll be at Charles and Marnie's," and with a final look of sick regret Mrs. Hawksworth retreated down the hallway.

S s S s S

Dean wrenched open the front door, behind him Sam pulled his jacket tighter at the incoming blast of cold air. The sensor light over the door clicked on and Sam noticed a few tiny dots drifting into the harsh arc of light. It was starting to snow. He was glad of the extra layer he had pulled on before they headed outside. The night sky was a blank canvas, empty of stars or moon and Sam could smell the cold tang in the air that promised more than just a few flakes. Dean was at the car, head stuck in the trunk, pulling things from his duffel and distributing them throughout his numerous pockets. This time they were going well stocked.

"Yo, Sammy." Dean's popped out from behind the raised lid and dangled a Beretta from his index finger, swinging it invitingly.

"Dean," Sam hissed, quickly checking the open front door, Rudy was waddling down the hall. Sam grabbed the gun and shoved it inside his jacket. "Lay off the weapons of mass destruction, will you. There's prepared and there's overkill."

"Do you seriously think this is going to end well, Sam. Come on. There's naive and then there's stupid." Dean slammed the trunk lid shut and smoothed down his jacket, the various lumps and bumps of assorted weaponry still bulging noticeably.

"I am not naive," Sam denied testily, "I just don't want to rub his face in the fact that you want to shoot his sister." Naivety was quality that he had left behind a long time ago and while repression may have taken its place, that was not the point. At all. "And I thought we'd already established that weapons aren't going to be effective against an energy sucking hotspot. You know, maybe we should find a way to neutralize it before we go charging off after someone who may or may not be controlling the damn thing." Sam tugged his collar higher. "What the hell are you doing?"

Dean was hiking up his pants and wriggling around, wincing in discomfort. He stuck his hand down the front of his jeans and after a few seconds of groping he pulled out a small dagger. Sam recognized it as one of an ornate pair of iron daggers that he and Dean had received from their father one Christmas.

"Ouch. That came a little too close for comfort." Dean grunted as he adjusted himself.

"Give me that." Sam grabbed the hilt of the knife. "That one's mine and I'd appreciate it if you could restrain yourself from stuffing my things down your shorts."

"Kinky, dude. But it's mine." Dean kept a tight grip on the rounded top of the hilt and pulled it back.

"No. You messed up yours when you stabbed that rock that time." Sam twisted his hand around, bringing his forearm up and pushing his brother backwards, Dean refused to relinquish his hold and Sam stumbled against him.

"It wasn't a rock, it was a cunningly disguised redcap and anyway who cares? You want a blade, there are plenty of others." Dean tugged hard and the dagger slipped through Sam's fingers.

"Ow. Fuck." Sam cursed, releasing his hold and sticking a damaged finger in his mouth. He turned away from Dean's triumphant grin, sucking at the small cut. Rudy stood on the front step swaddled in a quilted parker, the fur edged hood sat on his shoulders matching the white tufts of his hair, the door was shut behind him and there was a smattering of snow across his shoulders. He was staring at Dean or more precisely, at the weapon still clutched possessively in his hand. Dean hastily shoved it into his jacket pocket, grin frozen in place. Sam pulled his finger from his mouth and tried to wipe it surreptitiously on his jacket.

"I can assure you that your weapons are unnecessary, but if it makes you feel more comfortable, I will not object." Rudy said faintly and pulling his hood up, he walked briskly past them, around the corner of the house, heading for the back gate.

"Nice one, Sammy." Dean admonished flippantly, conjuring a flashlight from the depths of some pocket. "Here and don't lose it. It's one of those fancy LED ones, cost me a packet."

"Was too a rock." Sam muttered under his breath and followed his brother into the night.

The snow had already covered the ground in a thin but unbroken layer of white, it clung to the low lying shrubs of the garden and stuck to the bare branches of the trees. The small dry flakes drifted down untroubled by any wind, landing on Sam's eyelashes and tickling his nose. The contours of the path were still visible underneath the snow and the cold layer of white highlighted the forest floor in all directions, the dark silhouettes of the trees stark sentinels to their hasty footsteps. The forest watched silently and Sam tried to keep his eyes on the two men in front of him, Rudy taking short jittery steps, moving quickly along the trail while Dean's longer, more leisurely strides kept pace, but he couldn't keep from straining his eyes and peering into the strange snow reflected light of the forest. White shapes peeked from behind the black tree trunks, not yet hidden by the snow and off the path to his right, some way into the trees something glowed gently. Sam jerked his head and stopped, brushing snowflakes from his hair and face, blinking into the gloom. A small ball of pale blue light hovered amidst the trees, it bobbed slightly in the air like a tethered balloon before sinking towards the ground where in merged into the snow. Instinctively Sam stepped forward, off the path and into the shadow of the forest, the dry powdery snow under his feet made no noise as his treaded boots bit into it. Sam kept his eyes on the spot where the light had met the ground, moving forward only a few steps, he was sure that the snow was glowing with a faint blue light.

"Hey, Dean, can you see this?" Sam spoke over his shoulder, trying not to raise his voice too much. There was no answer. "Dean. Mr. Hawksworth?" Sam was a little louder this time, hoping that they had not gone too far down the trail. Still no answer. Sam backed up, sighing impatiently, this could be important. It was foolhardy to rush straight after Agatha so unprepared. Rudy had better be right about his sister, Sam turned back onto the path. It was empty. He stared dumbfounded down the path for a few seconds unable to process what he was or wasn't seeing. He spun round, there was no one on the path in either direction. The trail stretched on for several hundred yards before gradually disappearing around a gentle curve, there was no way Dean and Rudy could have left him behind so quickly. Sam stamped his feet partly against the cold and partly at the wave of anger the came over him.

"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid," he yelled at himself and the world in general, he stamped his feet again. Feet. Idiot. Sam bent over looking for the footprints of his companions. There were none, only a pristine path of dully glistening ice crystals settling over the ground. Sam swung around, even his own tracks behind him and those off the path were now mostly covered. Sam patted his jacket, the familiar shape of his Beretta at his fingertips, he pulled it out and slid off the safety lever, what use it would be against the forces at work in the forest, he was sure he didn't know but the cold weight of the gun rested reassuringly against his hand. Without wasting time thinking about it, Sam curled his finger around the trigger and aiming at the sky, pulled home.

The resounding crack reverberated through the night and seemed to linger high in the air for a few seconds and then as if the speeding bullet had somehow split open the clouds, the falling snowflakes became fatter and more numerous, until all Sam could see was a world of swirling white, he ducked under the nearest tree and listened.

Far off voices came from somewhere behind him, the words were indistinguishable but Sam thought that there was an urgency to the sound. Someone was shouting, one short word. It sounded like Dean. Sam chewed his lip, reluctant to venture back into the forest, he had been expecting an answering shot. The call came again, it sounded closer now. Sam sighed in resignation, it was too cold to keep still for any length of time, whether or not it was Dean out there, chasing whatever it was down would keep him warm, tucking away his gun he crept back into the dark embrace of the trees.

He thought briefly about calling out, but the too many reasons not to do so teased him gently, reminding him that not everything was as it seemed.

The falling snow died away and a thin sliver of moonlight cut through the clouds casting long jagged shadows across the snowy forest floor. Visibility had improved dramatically but the source of the voices was not apparent. Sam stopped, rubbing his hands together and puffing rapidly into his palms trying to ease the numbing sting of cold. He really should have brought some gloves. Over his knuckles he glimpsed the sudden shimmer of blue. It drifted a few feet above the ground, Sam was closer this time. It appeared to be an orb of light, outer edges fuzzy, its soft radiance flickering at its outer edge. It disappeared behind a tree and re-emerged further away from him. It was almost hypnotic and against his better judgment Sam was drawn to it.

The ground was rising under his feet, a small hill, bare of trees cut across the night sky, its rounded summit illuminated by the weak moon. The orb shone brightly and then settled into the snow once more. Sam looked up, someone was standing at the top of the hill.

"Hello." Sam called apprehensively. " Hey, hello. Mr. Hawksworth?" He knew it wasn't Dean, the figure was too slight and was standing hunched over in an odd posture. The figure did not reply or move. "Miss Hawksworth? I just want to talk. Your brother's worried about you." Sam slowly climbed higher, the snow crunching quietly as he dug his toes into the slope, trying to find traction on the smooth surface. Nothing moved and as Sam got closer he see that the figure was leaning forward, head hanging down.

"Hello." Sam tried again, trying to make out any recognizable features. He remembered the flashlight Dean had given him. The thin beam shone on the figure. It was covered with a fine layer of snow, clothes hung loosely over the spindly limbs and Sam's heart lurched. He aimed his flashlight at the partially hidden face, dried sunken features shockingly contrasted against bleached blond hair. Sam reached out, brushing away some of the snow and tugging at the coat that was hanging open. The corpse did not move. Sam circled around it. Its arms were pulled behind it, fastened at the wrists and secured to a tall narrow stake, driven into the earth.

"Hello, Lotte," he said sadly.

"Hello, Sam Winchester."

Sam jumped, dropping his flashlight and stumbling backwards. Agatha was standing at the brow of the hill.

"I was wondering when you'd get here."


	19. Chapter 19

**Lies I Never Told**

**Chapter 19**

**S s S s S**

Sam found his footing, stepping back across the snow, putting more distance between him and Agatha. She moved forward, a curiously out of place figure in the cold winter night. She was dressed as she had been at dinner. No coat, only a knitted cream sweater, she had taken time to pull on a pair of green rubber boots that stuck out incongruously from under her long grey woolen skirt. If Sam had ever met a more unthreatening looking adversary the occasion hadn't been memorable.

Dean's flashlight lay upended in the snow, the bright pencil of light dissolving into the dusky night. Sam's fingers twitched, itching to retrieve it. Despite the apparent danger that Agatha represented all Sam could hear was Dean bitching in his head, he supposed it was an improvement over the brook-no-argument attitude of his father that had dogged his subconscious for most of his life.

Agatha leant over the parched remains of Lotte; she raised a hand, stroking her fingers through the short hair, brushing off the snow. "Millie will be upset; it's so hard to get good help," she said conversationally.

"Perhaps it wouldn't be such a chore if you could stop sucking the life out of people," Sam pointed out, gulping noisily against his dry throat. He sidestepped across the snow, slowly sliding his gun from his pocket and letting it hang loosely in his hand.

Agatha continued petting the corpse of her family's housekeeper, rubbing the short hair between her finger and thumb. "Did you know that hair is made up of dead cells? Dried up and useless and yet we spent so much time and energy on it." She turned and glanced at Sam. "Some of us."

"Why?" Sam asked quietly, his next question was going to be 'how' and as he edged toward the downward path he hoped fervently that Agatha wouldn't answer that one with a practical demonstration.

"Why not? Because I've spent a lifetime getting to this point. Because I can." She turned away from Lotte, and reached down to pickup the flashlight. Sam tensed. Agatha shone the light into his face and Sam ducked his head, throwing up a hand and peering through his fingers.

"Does your brother know what a filthy freak you are?" She sounded amused.

Sam was already cold, but at that moment his body felt as if it had been dumped into icy water. Everything stopped. His heart, his breath, his capacity for thought and as the initial shock waned his heart tried to make up for the sudden stoppage, racing thunderously. He straightened up, denial ready at his lips. How could she know about his dreams or the shadows that stalked his waking hours?

"What do you mean? I haven't done anything. You're the one feeding your friends and family to whatever lives out here." Sam was angry and afraid, the two emotions melding easily together, making his voice harsh and loud, his raised his arm, keeping it rigid, aiming his gun at the figure behind the light.

Agatha clicked off the flashlight and looked up at the moon. Sam took a small step forward. Agatha's snapped her head back and raised a wagging finger.

"Tut, tut."

The ground under Sam's feet trembled and something moved through the night air, a lazy undulation that pushed out from the center of the hilltop, rolling down into the trees and shaking branches enough to dislodge the settled snow. The ground was still for a moment and then it came again, more powerful this time. The shaking ground threw him off balance and he lost his footing, falling to his knees as his gun slipped from his fingers and skated across the icy surface the snow, stopping a few inches from Agatha.

"What are you? What is it?" His vortex theory was looking more and more shaky and underneath his fear was the prickly burn of irritation. It was a damn good theory.

"What am I? Someone who was born and raised to recognize my potential, my strength. The question is, what are you? Do you know? The first time you came to the house, the stench made me sick. Brought up by hunters, your father must be so stupid, I'm surprised you managed to survive this far." The crisp air carried Agatha's soft voice across the distance between them, the cold note of distain in her voice echoing in Sam's ears.

"My father?" Sam couldn't seem to escape the man, however hard he tried; something of the same must have shown in his face.

"I've been in the business a long time, child, there's not much I don't know. Poor John Winchester. Dissent in the ranks. What a disappointment you must be. Not like your brother, all fire and passion."

Sam was fairly sure he had just been told he was dull and the irritation lurking behind his fear flared up momentarily eclipsing his more guarded emotions and he decided it was time to do something rash.

"I guess we can't all be talented and passionate. I'll try harder next time," he snapped and sucking in a deep breath, he leapt forward, dropping to the ground and swinging his legs around, his feet catching Agatha across the back of the knees. She fell backwards into the snow, the toes of her boots pointing into the night sky. Sam scrambled to his feet hoping to hell that he hadn't killed her. She didn't move, he bent over her prostrate form, and quickly shrunk back. The glint of open eyes caught the silvery light.

His ragged puffs of breath condensing in the cold air were static, frozen in front of his face and then the small cloud of moisture fragmented before him, as the space around him shook, the vibration from the ground traveled from feet and up his legs, increasing in intensity as it overtook his torso and rang across his skull.

Every cell in his body sang out in pain, vibrating against its neighbor, a high pitched whistling sound reverberated around his head and Sam sank to his knees, clutching his head, the sound increased as every part of him shook. As he pitched face first to the ground a stray, an irreverent thought meandered across his mind; this was what it must be like to be the pea in a whistle. If his teeth hadn't been rattling so violently he might have laughed, and then it stopped. Ears still ringing and stomach contents swirling dangerously Sam lifted his head, Agatha's green clad feet were a couple of feet from his face. He scrambled backwards, pushing himself away, kicking at the ground, fingers clawing through the snow to the cold earth beneath.

Agatha was brushing herself down, peeling dead leaves and twigs from her clothes and hair. She glared at Sam. His gun now in her hands.

"Why did you stop?" Sam stayed on the ground, taking deep breaths and trying to figure out his next move.

Agatha studied him for a moment. "It would take you if I let it, but I don't want you polluting its energy. You would taint it and in turn taint me. You can rot in the ground and the let the worms take you back. There are others who I can take."

"How am I any different from you," Sam asked angrily. Why was he always being judged, compared to others and always found wanting? Growing up, hunting, at school, it didn't matter how smart he was or how hard he worked, he never seemed to find quite the right fit in life.

"Me, I have a gift, vital and pure. Yours is unnatural, a blasphemy against creation. You can't stop me, no one can stop me. They've tried, but I was too strong, even then." Agatha's smug self assurance grating on his nerves.

Then the knowledge came to Sam; it was so clear that he could not understand why he had not seen it before. Just like everything else, he thought tiredly.

"Your parents. It was you, not anything in that house."

Agatha's surprise showed briefly on her face before sliding away and being replaced by an expression of haughty annoyance. "My mother, she saw my talent and she was jealous, telling my father that I should hold back, not explore all that I could do and she wanted me to be like her, prostituting herself out, selling her gift. It was easy enough."

"And Rudy, is he going to let you do this?" Sam had no idea if Rudy would even try to stop his sister.

Agatha held up the gun before her, caressing the barrel with her fingertip. "My brother has spent years with his head stuck in the sand, wasting his own talents. He won't stop me." She bent down and smiled condescendingly at Sam. "Now how do you think I should attract your brother's attention? Any ideas?"

Sam tried to get to his feet, running seemed his most effective defense, he was too late. Air molecules danced across his face, their movements agitating his own skin, stabbing into his bones, burning through his every atom. He screamed, not for help or mercy, just a desperate attempt to relieve the pent up fire that blazed through his system, consuming his life force. He thrust his face into the snow trying to cool the heat of his skin, the ice forcing its way into his open mouth, muffling his cries. He curled into himself, it felt as if he sinking through the snow, melting it and the soil away, his body molding its own grave around him. He could smell the dirt, grit pressing into his pores, falling ever downwards until he was sure he would be consumed by the earth's fiery core.

"Sam. Sammy." A voice in his ear that sounded so close and yet was a million miles away, something clamped over his arm, halting his descent into the ground. The pain was ebbing away, retreating along his muscles leaving a trail of jolting shocks. He whimpered, unable to control the residual contractions. He was pulled upright, into a sitting position, his face pressed into rough fabric and the comfort of a familiar scent. Hands travelled lightly over him, smoothing down his back and gently trying to pry his folded limbs apart.

There was more that one voice, a conversation floating on the cold night above him. Ignoring his clanging nerve endings, Sam tried to concentrate on the words, he managed to turn his head, angling his face into a patch of exposed warmth.

"Jesus, Sam. Watch it there buddy, you're freezing." Arms came around him, holding him firmly.

No, no, I'm hot, Sam thought, too hot. His mouth was open, he realized, his tongue leaden and useless and he had the unpleasant suspicion he was drooling, on Dean's neck; and he'd lost his precious flashlight. He was never going to hear the end of it. He tried to close his mouth, the tendons in his jaw clicked mockingly at him.

"… you think? Come on Mr. Hawksworth, wake up and smell the herbal tea. Who else did this?" Dean's throat moved against his cheek and Sam found that his arm muscles were relaxing at last.

"I will not condemn my sister out of hand. We do not know what happened to Lotte. Anything could have attacked Sam." Rudy was flustered and defensive, his voice rising.

Sam tilted his head back, and wiggled his tongue. "Agagag." Damn it, that didn't sound right.

"See," Dean said triumphantly. "Agatha."

Sam let his head flop forward.

"Oh no you don't. Sam, can you move, where is she?" Dean's hands came up and framed his face, flat palms massaging his cheeks, Sam worked his mouth.

"S'not here?"

"Nobody here but us chickens, Sammy. Us and poor old Lotte. A damn shame, a waste of fine schnitzel."

Sam looked around slowly, his blurred vision gradually sharpening. Rudy was a few feet away; standing behind Dean, Sam couldn't see what he was looking at, the old man's line of sight directed into the gloomy forest

He tugged at Dean's jacket and raised a trembling hand to point upwards. Dean rose smoothly from where he knelt in the snow and Sam pulled himself up on the offered arm. Dean stepped back but never took his eyes of him, grimacing as he rubbed the end of his sleeve over his neck.

"What happened Sam? One minute you're behind us and then, poof, nothing. No tracks. We've been going around in circles for over an hour calling you. And then we heard you. I thought you were being pulled apart by a pack of rabid wolves. Scared the shit outta of me." Dean glanced over at Rudy, still with his back to them. "If she's got any sense she's running as far and as fast as she can." He made no effort to lower his voice.

"Poof?" Sam blinked. "She's controlling something, it sends out waves of energy, messes with you. Really messes with you."

"Your vortex?"

"I don't know, maybe. She can stop it and start it and apparently she likes to feed it. I think she somehow takes that energy back into herself." Sam took a tentative step towards Rudy, his legs hardly wobbled at all. "Mr. Hawksworth, we have to find her. We have to stop her, you must know that."

Rudy straightened slightly and Sam could the tension in his shoulders as his back stiffened. He did not turn around.

"All I know is that nobody died until you showed up, my sister might have some strange beliefs but she's not dangerous, she's not a killer." Sam had the feeling in wasn't the Winchesters that Rudy was trying to convince.

"Keep telling yourself that Rudy," Dean's voice was tight, "you said it yourself, we're here because we understand. You summoned us; it was your intent, your desire to end this that brought us here. Or don't you believe in what you do. You know how these things work, deep down you knew what she was, what she is and you needed us to stop her."

Rudy's shoulders dropped as he sagged in defeat.

"She told me about your parents." Sam said quietly, Dean raised a questioning eyebrow and Sam nodded.

"Wow." Dean was morbidly impressed.

Rudy twisted around, his face pallid in the moonlight. "My parents? What about them? Agatha had nothing to do with their deaths, if that's what you're implying."

"She thought they were holding her back, she believed that your mother misused her gifts." Sam wouldn't be repeating any other parts of that conversation any time soon.

"No. It wasn't like that." Rudy dipped his head, shielding his eyes as if he could block out the truth of Sam's words.

"You knew. You knew what she was capable of and you let her near your own family, your daughter." Dean stepped in front of Sam, keeping close enough that Sam had to peer over his shoulder. "And you sent us out there. Tell me why we shouldn't leave right now."

Sam knew they wouldn't be going anywhere just yet. Rudy seemed to wilt even further.

"I didn't know, please, how could you possibly believe that?" Rudy pleaded. "I loved my parents. Sometimes, I thought, that perhaps Agatha was too good at what she did. She was always something of an introvert and after the fire; she was so quiet and secretive, always pushing away the help offered by our family and friends. What was I supposed to do?. She was my sister, I'd promised to protect her."

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?" Dean pressed, contempt in his voice, "For God's sake what about your wife. Doesn't she deserve your loyalty, your protection? It seems to me you've had it pretty easy since you married. Or were you only in it for the money?"

Rudy's face crumpled and Sam thought he was going to cry. The old man shook his head, his lips firmly together, reining in his emotions. "We went our separate ways when I married Millie. I admit it; I was relieved, because I had someone else, a family who needed me. We didn't talk about before."

"Out of sight, out of mind," Sam breathed, more to himself than the others.

"Where would she go?" Dean was unsympathetic. Rudy looked helpless.

Sam found himself walking back past the shriveled body on the highest point of the hill, what was left of Lotte was facing north, and for the first time since arriving he felt he could make some sense of the lay of land.

"That way. North. The clearing's down there. That's where she wants us to go. She wasn't trying to kill me." Sam thought about what he had just said. "Or she could have been, mainly she did it to get your attention."

"I can't wait to congratulate her on a job well-done." Dean's gun was in his hand and with it he motioned to Sam. "Come on, she can't move that fast."

"What? You know she's going to be waiting for us. As in a trap, as in whooping our asses again. How are we even going to get close enough to stop her before she calls up her handy pocket hurricane?" It wasn't that Sam was that afraid, he was just getting a little frayed around the edges and the woman really didn't like him. Dean didn't answer, crunching across the snowy hilltop, he caught Rudy by the arm, pulling him forward and directing him downhill.

"We'll need a distraction. Won't we Rudy?" Dean gave the old man a not so gentle shove and Rudy skittered down the hill, arms flailing. Sam tried to look disapproving, but it was a half hearted attempt at best.

Dean kept close to Rudy, encouraging him forward whenever he slowed. Sam didn't take his eyes of his brother and more than once had to stop himself from reaching out and clutching his jacket. They had been weaving in and out of the trees for about five minutes when Rudy stopped.

"Did you hear that?" Rudy whispered. Dean eyed him with suspicion and was about to say something when he paused, cocking his head. Sam could hear nothing other than the quiet noises of the snow clad forest.

Rudy started, panic on his face. "It's Millie. Can't you hear her? She's calling me, she's calling for help." He grabbed Dean's arm, tugging in desperation. Sam watched Dean frown, worry creasing his forehead and knew that his brother heard it too. Nothing but a light if chilly breeze bothered Sam's ears.

"I can hear someone, somewhere. I think." Dean looked to Sam, unsure and questioning. It was highly unlikely that Mrs. Hawksworth had followed them and Sam knew that this was no time for the indulgence of self-doubt.

"There's no one there, Mr. Hawksworth. It's a trick, she's used it before. Your sister doesn't want you to get to the clearing." Sam said, a lot more calmly than he felt.

"How can you be so sure?" Rudy's fingers curled into Dean's sleeve and his head bobbed nervously, looking between the two younger men and darting anguished glances into the woods.

I can't, Sam acknowledged to himself, I never will. "Trust me, there's no one there."

The approval in Dean's eyes was more welcomed than he could have imagined. They moved on, Rudy moving more swiftly now, guiding them toward the clearing. As they broke out of the trees and into the clearing the clouds drifted away and the moon, higher in the sky now, shone brightly on the clearing, it reminded Sam of an empty ice rink, the white ground smooth and even, ringed by a uniform band of dark trees. They watched in silence, Rudy stood, his body rigid, studying his boots, while Dean shifted from side to side, scanning the landscape for any sign of Agatha.

At first appearance the clearing did seem empty; Sam tried to pinpoint the spot where he had pulled Dean from what was now firmly fixed in his mind as his vortex. Something moved not far into the clearing, the snow itself seemed to rise up a few inches and the air above it shimmered, distorting the view behind it. Like a mirage, Sam realized.

"There. See that?" Sam pointed. Rudy looked up and Dean became very still, Sam could sense the strain in their faces as they both craned their necks, as if being a few millimeters closer would reveal Agatha to them.

Dean relaxed and shot Sam a thoughtful look. "There's nothing there, Sam. At least not that I can see, though I guess she's got more than one trick up her sleeve, eh Rudy?"

Rudy was still studying the clearing, his profile in dark contrast to the white background of the clearing and it wasn't anything that Sam could even attempt to describe but even in the semi-darkness he could see something pass across the old man's face.

"You can see it too, can't you Mr. Hawksworth?"

Rudy turned to him. "Maybe I can, but my sister does not appear to be here."

"Appearance can be deceptive. I think she's always been out here, watching us, waiting. She's waiting now, we can't see her, but she's there, I know she is. You have to go to her." Sam had the feeling he was being a touch too melodramatic; it had the desired effect, though. Rudy glared defiantly at him and then shuffled into the clearing.

"You sounded just like movie-announcer-guy. Been practicing in front of the mirror again?" Dean asked offhandedly, watching Rudy tiptoe through the snow.

"You love it." Sam retorted.

"I know. We all have our flaws. Look." Dean nudged him.

Rudy had stopped and the shimmering in the air intensified until an opaque shape began to form, starting at ground level and rising several feet upwards and across, its centre darkened, solidifying into a recognizable shape. It was Agatha, the space around her filled with visibly swirling currents that rose into the night and were swallowed by the moonlight.

"Tricky, tricky bitch," Dean snarled quietly, edging forward. "We need to be closer."

"No." Sam pulled him back. "It's enough that she knows we're here. Just wait."

The chill wind carried Rudy's voice into the trees. "Agatha. Perhaps you should come home now my dear and we can sort this out."

Sam caught an undercurrent in the tone of Rudy's voice and for one absurd moment it reminded him of Dean. Big brother knows best, he thought somewhat sourly, and then immediately felt a twinge of shame, caring about your family wasn't a crime even if it did sometimes seem like a life sentence.

Agatha didn't reply, instead passing her brother and turning her gaze to the precise spot where Sam and Dean stood hiding in the shadows. Sam pressed a finger to the sliver of pain that burrowed into his forehead. Next to him Dean repositioned his hands around his gun, muscles at the ready and before Sam could stop him Dean stepped out from the cover of the trees, training his weapon on Agatha, who did nothing but stand and stare. Sam took a couple of hasty steps, hovering uneasily beside his brother and then jumped in shock as Dean fired. He aimed high, behind Agatha Rudy ducked.

"Stop, please. There's no need for that." Rudy straightened up, stumbling clumsily in an effort to reach his sister's side, he was within a few feet of her when he stopped suddenly, bouncing back, arms waving as he tried, unsuccessfully, to retain his balance. He landed on his backside, gaping like a stunned fish.

"What the fuck?" Dean didn't drop his arms but his gun wavered. Sam had an unpleasant thought, which gave rise to another; one which judiciously applied could prove the truth of the first.

"Shoot her," he hissed.

"Pardon?" Dean whipped his head round. "Did you just say what I thought you said?"

Agatha was swaying gently from side to side and had closed her eyes. She was not, Sam thought, the slightest bit concerned about Dean taking potshots at her. Never a good sign.

"Go on. Do it." He was tempted to add an 'I dare you', Dean probably heard it anyway, because he narrowed his eyes at Sam and in one smooth movement swung back towards the small figure standing quietly in the moonlight, took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out loud and clear only to be cut short an instant later, plucked by some unseen force from the night air. Agatha didn't so much as twitch. Dean frowned.

"I could've sworn..."

"Do it again." Sam urged recklessly. Dean lined up his shot, taking a couple of steps forward and fired. The air around Agatha rippled, moving outward in circular motion like the surface of pond after the impact of small pebble.

"How the hell is she doing that? Those suckers were on target, I don't miss at this range." Dean's hand dropped.

Sam cleared his throat and coughed. "Forcefield," he said quickly.

Dean wobbled slightly. "What? What the hell is that supposed to mean? This isn't freakin' Star Trek, in case you haven't noticed."

"I told you, she's manipulating some kind of energy. Dude, we've seen stranger things." Sam insisted. Agatha was moving, she lifted her head and Sam shivered, she must have opened her eyes because twin spots of soft silver light shone across the murky space between them. Behind her Rudy climbed unsteadily to his feet, shaking his head and trying to pull himself together.

Sam could only blame himself for what happened next. Okay, it was obviously Agatha's fault, but he might have avoided it if he hadn't been concentrating so hard on whatever paranormal shenanigans she was busy conjuring up, he didn't expect her to cheat.

"Shit, where'd she get that. Sam?" Dean seemed to think Agatha's wasn't playing fair, either. She was, Sam realized a fraction of a second too late, brandishing a gun, his gun and pointing it at him.

"Crap," Dean cursed again and shoved Sam hard, a little too late. As Sam crashed into the ground a burning streak of pain sliced across the top of his thigh and bit into his buttock, he barely had time to spit out the mouthful of snow he had inadvertently inhaled when Dean grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him back under the partial protection of the trees. Another shot whizzed past his ear as he crashed down behind the exposed roots of a large fir.

Sam gritted his teeth, gently patting the top of his left leg, his hand came away smeared with blood, in the colorless light of the night it was black against his pale flesh and he hastily wiped his hand in the snow.

"Was that your gun?" Dean asked accusingly as he threw himself down beside Sam.

Shot with his own gun. He should have quit while he was ahead. "Possibly." Shit, moving hurt.

A shot ricocheted off the tree trunk above them.

"She's a damn good shot for a wrinkly old biddy," Dean complained, peering over the tree root. "Let's try this again," he rested the barrel of his gun on the knarled knot of wood by his nose and fired, the noise cut short as before. Again an answering shot tore through the branches above them.

Sam kept his head down, breathing through the pain radiating from his leg. "Well?"

"I don't know," Dean was uncertain, "she's staying where she is. Rudy's got up; he's standing there, like a eunuch at an orgy, doing fuck all."

And I can't even move, Sam bit back a groan, fighting back the sick fear that was rising in his throat. Just leave me alone, he thought miserably and had a sudden wishful vision of Agatha spread eagle in the snow with Dean's bullet between her eyes. As if in reply another jab of pain spiked behind his eyes and he rested his forehead in the cool relief of the snow.

"Huh, she dropped her aim," Dean fired once more and this time the noise echoed across the clearing. "Yes! Her mojo's on the fritz. Pity I missed. Hey, Sam. You okay?"

Sam lifted his head, Agatha, gun dangling at her side, was moving swiftly toward the center of the clearing, Rudy followed her, keeping a safe distance and Sam knew she wasn't running from them, only repositioning her defenses.

"Dean, you've got to stop her now", he shifted sideways to nudge his brother, hissing as he jarred his leg.

"Not from here, I can't see well enough in this light and although it would serve him right, I might hit Rudy." Dean scrambled to his feet. "You coming?"

"Um," Sam offered and rolled onto his good side, poking at his jeans trying to assess just how blood soaked they were, his questing fingers found a tear at the bottom of his back pocket and then strong fingers gripped his own pulling them away.

"How bad?" Dean pulled out his flashlight and stuck it between teeth and with practiced hands examined Agatha's handiwork.

"It hurts," Sam grumbled, aspiring for stoic and falling sadly short.

"No shit." Dean was tugging at his jeans and there was the faint rather sodden sound of fabric ripping. Cool air flowed over his upper thigh.

"Hey, careful with those. You know, if this ends badly, I wanna die with my pants on." Sam winced as Dean prodded a particular tender spot.

"There's no gushing, she creased you. Pants or no pants, you'll live, although I ain't so sure about the lovely Ms. Hawksworth. You stay here." Dean ordered brusquely.

"No." Sam grabbed his brother's arm as he turned to go. "We'll go together. We don't know how strong she is, but we do know that she's only dealt with one victim at a time before. With two or even three if you count Rudy", which he didn't, "her energy mojo might not be so effective."

"Can you walk?" Dean was skeptical.

"It's not like I have any choice in the matter." Sam twisted around onto his knees and let Dean pull him up; he shone his flashlight on the snow where Sam had been laying. A round patch of pale red ice twinkled in the light. Sam turned and limped into the clearing, the wind was picking up, a soft whine reaching through the night and blowing directly into his face.

With Dean watching his every step, they followed Agatha's tracks, the air currents around them growing stronger with each step; they had reached the very center of the clearing. A figure emerged from the gloom in front of them, it was Rudy and as they reached his side Agatha herself became visible. She stood in the eye of the gathering storm, moving her head from side to side and back and forth, mimicking the progression of the cyclone that rose around her. Dean leaned in close to Rudy.

"How long," he demanded, shouting above the increasing howl of the wind.

"Just a minute or so, no more." Rudy's features lax with shock. "I never believed it. I've never seen anyone…" He shook his head. "I'm so sorry, boys."

The swirling winds were whisking up a fine layer of the snow and thin lines of ice were now visible in the twisting air, partially obscuring their view of Agatha. Sam could feel the same creeping feeling of lethargy begin to take hold and the flying air crystals collided with his exposed skin, providing a sharp reminder of the danger they were in. The icy cyclone jumped toward them and they backed up, except for Rudy who stood, head back staring up, transfixed at the mass of whirling energy that his sister had summoned. The wind made the old man stagger and as Sam stumbled back over the slippery ground, Rudy fell to his knees, swayed for a few seconds and then toppled forward into the snow.

Without thinking Sam lurched toward the fallen man, before he could reach him he driving force of the twister hit him full force, the bullet wound in his leg screamed with fresh pain and his legs gave out from underneath him. He was on his back, the wind stealing his breath and scouring his body of all his strength. Almost immediately the wind stopped, the snow that had been carried high into the air fell back to earth, dusting his body with ice crystals. Silence. Someone crunched across the snow, in light, measured steps. Where was Dean? He couldn't even muster enough muscle power to close his eyes. The moon, almost full shone into his open eyes, filling his field of vision with its milky glow. A dark shape blocked it from his view.

"It doesn't want you." A gun barrel pointing down at him, a quiet click. At least he had his pants on.

"I wouldn't do that if you've got any sense." Dean's voice came from somewhere behind him. Sam's fingers flexed involuntary, he blinked, and the muscles across his shoulders and down his spine twitched.

"There's nothing you can do, Mr. Winchester. Say goodbye to your brother." Agatha sounded so sure of herself, so convinced of her abilities that Sam almost expected to hear Dean's farewell. Don't let her in, he reminded himself. Get out of my head. The gun in his face wavered.

Sam threw himself sideways, muscles contracting randomly with little or no coordination. For the second time that night he knocked Agatha's legs out from underneath her and she fell across him. Her fingers dug into him as she scrabbled to right herself, Dean was at his side in an instant, pulling him away.

"Sammy?" Dean scooped up the gun at Sam's feet. Sam leant heavily into his brother; his weakened muscles sluggishly slow to respond.

"Okay," he wheezed. The air trembled around them; the ground pulsed beneath their feet. "Oh God, here she goes again."

Agatha was hunched over, hair wildly askew, muttering in low repetitive tone.

"Dean." Sam knew that they had only a moment. Dean flung himself at Agatha, crying out as he connected with her, Agatha staggered from the impact and falling back to sit in the snow, legs out before her. Dean rolled away, covering his ears, his body shaking as the vibrations increased. Sam folded to the ground once more, the excruciating heat swept through his body, his low cries of pain, meshing with his brother's as his body and the earth shook.

"Stop this. Stop it now Agatha." A hoarse but insistent voice called out and gradually the tremors calmed.

Sam squirmed around; it was Rudy looking remarkably healthy for a dead guy. Agatha's face registered her shock for only a brief moment and then she raised her hand.

"Rudy, you do surprise me. Help me up." She smiled; Sam supposed she imagined it to be an encouraging expression, instead her thin lips curled up with scorn.

"I think you should stay there." Rudy kept his hands to himself and took several steps back until he was standing by Dean, lying curled up on the ground. Rudy knelt by his side and shook him gently.

Dean groaned and slowly sat up. Sam crawled over to his side as Rudy turned back to Agatha.

"You okay?" Sam whispered slumping against him, Dean's muscles telegraphing their recent trauma to him in a series of sporadic twitches.

"Give me a minute. Why isn't Rudy dead, or at least, I don't know, looking as shitty as I feel?" Dean croaked.

Sam was wondering the same thing himself.

Rudy offered his hand and Agatha took it, Rudy helped her up, keeping her hand tightly in his.

"Did you kill them?" he asked quietly. Agatha looked at him making no reply, her face unreadable and she tugged at her hand, Rudy did not release her.

"Did you kill them?" Rudy repeated squeezing her hand. "Mother and father. Was it you?"

"Telling tales, I see," Agatha nodded at Sam, "how childish. What does it matter now? Look at me, Rudy, see what I can do. I can control the power of the earth itself, channel its energy, give to it and take from it. Did you think I was going to sit around and do parlor readings for fat, rich idiots or spend my dotage writing some dreary self-help book? I took what I needed and for the past forty years you've let me."

Rudy's hand slid away and Agatha laughed, high pitched and frenetic, clapping her hands together.

"So you killed Alan and poor Lotte, I suppose there have been others you brought here to this place, whatever it is. My home." Rudy sighed, covering his heart with one hand, the other fiddling with his pocket.

"Rudy, my dear brother. I didn't raise a hand against them, what took them was part of the natural order. All I have done is spent years communing with this place. It wasn't that strong when I first discovered it, it has taken me a long time to connect with it, increase its strength. A natural energy sink, a vortex shaped by the land . It may be your home Rudy, but it is now my life." Agatha flung out her arms to either side, as if staking her claim on the land around her, her voice full of pride and more than a touch of madness.

A vortex. Ha! Sam elbowed Dean in the side, but Dean's attention was fixed on Rudy and Agatha.

What Agatha expected Rudy to do, Sam couldn't guess and whether she intended to try and unleash the vortex again he would never know, Rudy was fumbling in his pocket and Dean tensed, before Sam could even think about blinking Rudy's arm was up and sweeping forward in a graceful and practiced arc. Agatha's arms dropped to her side, her mouth open in silent disbelief as her head flopped forward. A small black stain blossoming on her sweater, spreading outward from her heart, and in Rudy's hand a small iron dagger.

"Holy fuck." Dean breathed softly and then whispered indignantly,"Hey, that's mine." Sam rubbed at a sudden sting in his chest and decided not to argue, he didn't want it back now.

Agatha lay on her back, eyes open to the cold moonlit sky and Sam heard Rudy mutter a quiet, "Sorry Aggie." He ducked away, walking stiffly over to them; he stooped to wipe the blade on the snow before offering it to Dean.

"You should keep this safe, it's a powerful blade."

Dean automatically reached up for the weapon as Rudy gazed distractedly over their heads.

"You shouldn't be sitting in the wet snow like that, you'll catch a chill. We should hurry back; I think I owe Millie an apology." Rudy remarked pensively.

Sam didn't know what to say, judging by the dumbfounded expression on Dean's face neither did he. Reminding Rudy that he had just killed his sister suddenly felt kind of insensitive, Sam cleared his throat.

"Are you alright, Mr. Hawksworth? I mean, uh, I thought the vortex had, uh, knocked you out?"

Dean clucked his tongue impatiently. "We thought you were dead, why aren't you?"

"Oh," Rudy's hands fluttered self consciously and then he unzipped his heavy coat and pulled something from around his neck. Sam couldn't quite make out what it was. The beam of a flashlight came on; Dean held the light up to Rudy's chest. Around his neck was a thin leather cord on which hung a large flat polished crystal and a small bag.

"One of your protection charms?" Dean asked sharply, Rudy had the grace to look embarrassed, blinking in the shaft of light.

"It has a limited effect and I am sorry that I did not believe I would need it."

"But you wore it anyway, and left us to your sister's psychotic whims." Dean got to his feet. "Thanks," he added with heavy sarcasm. "I think we can go now, Sam."

Sam nodded and let his brother help him up; Rudy was already making his way back to the forest and presumably the trail home.

"Why?" Sam called after him, needing to know how such a gentle old man could do what he did and walk away without a second look. "Why now, why end it like that."

Rudy stopped and turned his head. "I swore to protect Agatha and maybe this was the only way to do it, and she killed my best friends and that I cannot forgive. My parents were the kindest people I have ever met. I should have seen what she had become, it was my responsibility. I did what I had to do." He hunched over and continued on.

"Harsh man, but I'm glad he did it, it's his mess now, not ours," Dean grasped Sam's arm. "Let's get your sorry ass back and we can get out of here."

As they left the clearing behind, stumbling together through the night, a dark shape glided across the sky and let loose a single shrill cry.

**S s S s S**

In the most hideous display of déjà vu Sam had ever had the misfortune to experience, he once again found himself face down on the Hawksworth's couch being stitched up by the estimable Dr. Browne. This time there was no audience, the house was subdued, Mr. and Mrs. Hawksworth had disappeared upstairs and Dean was packing up their things and loading the car.

As he lay there, wincing at the tug of the sutures, Agatha's words kept worming their way into his head. Freak. Unnatural. Blasphemy. They spun around and around until it felt like even his thoughts were suffering from vertigo. Four years ago that woodland sprite while seen by several people had only attacked two. One was Agatha; maybe it was trying to stop her meddling.

And the other, one Sam Winchester, valiantly called upon to do her dirty work. Tree guardians were gentle spirits, Sam knew this and yet the sprite had gone after him everything it had. Dean was right; it had obviously thought the worst of him. Why? Because you were trying to kill it, idiot, he told himself sternly. There was no big mystery, no point worrying about it.

Dr. Browne finished up and went silently from the room. Sam pulled his tattered clothing and dignity around him and went to say goodbye.

Dean was waiting by the car and Mr. and Mrs. Hawksworth were on the front step, huddled together. Sam gave them a feeble smile. Mrs. Hawksworth gave a little wave, remaining red eyed and silent. Rudy shuffled down the steps to shake his hand, and for the first time since meeting, he was an old man, shrunken and frail.

He shook Dean's hand. "Take care on the road, boys," and he returned to his wife's side and they slipped back into the house.

"Where to?" Dean eased the car into gear. Sam was sprawled uncomfortably on the back seat, keeping the weight off his backside.

"I don't care, as long as it's a long way from here. How about the other side of the country?" Sam closed his eyes and slid down the seat.

"Okey dokey. Hey Sammy, don't let this get to you. The way I see it, bitch was a complete freak," Dean told him a little too cheerfully as he adjusted the rear view mirror.

Sam swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat. "Yeah. Sure. I know."

The End


End file.
